Why are your words creased
in moon’s indigo carbon copy,
a blue my eyes cannot hold?
Why are my morning legs
ice-struck at dawn,
yet lift like pollen
when you place flowers in my hands?
Why does this story tugs at my ribs
toward opposite tides-
heavy as wet wool after rain,
light as dust drifting through an emptied room?
Why do my lips freeze into chalk
while my chest is a raging engine
along uneven tracks?
Why is the night crusted in salt,
unmeasured beats
between the high cries of loons?
My fingers tremble against cold glass
before the question crosses my tongue.
Are moonseeds blooming where breath should be?
Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poems of Questions (No Answers). Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm. Thank you for your visits and comments.
