Chorus of Wild / Flowers Behind Eyes
       

to suck the burning sand of hope
the body sucks like sadness
through exhaust determination empties me
of the bright delicate lumber
out and in as if I had to forfeit just
and love without the cartouche of autumn leaves
the balcony mind conjures its poets slowly
and I gibbering through the pipes
of a melted crow a hundred sudden
questionmarks of scattered ashes
thirst warms up overhead white-haired
I get stood up by the hyacinth night-journey
am a fjord in beauty's nation
the plants of ravages of childhood
to run screaming to their inflammation
the drops just can't break through
how doves fucked me in the dark
and under the earth I overheat waiting
like an immortal clock for numbers
to discover the pieces buried in cows
in the night these flowers it's ink
gouty white gunshots of the conflagration
every hum hurts like granite
every cuticle falls to the final home of hot rain
every look begins in a shell
ends slicking over the open wounds of hope

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Copyright © 2018 Scott Keeney All rights reserved
from Walloping Shrug
Some Clouds Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission