Member Poem

If I were a love poem, I’d fall out
of skins. You would look at the red
autumn light and think of blood
that turned blue from being swept
by the beauty of a cold hour that
stroked fire from wet embers. I have
gazed keenly at your fantasies
and found nothing but non-utopian
realities about clean knees and elbows.
Look at me from truth, away from
a photo, find verses of dimensional tones
that will tell you of care that never
journeyed those oceans. If I were
a page of multiple sketches, you’d see
me break through the lines
without a trace
on how to put me back together.

But, if I were a poem, I would fall
like the droop of your eyes that aged
from learning how to finally recite me
from memory.

* First published at Silver Birch Press