over time
i have tuned
my eyes to see
(erroneously, maybe)
a subdued wash of color
seeping through wood
as a loaded metaphor
a symbol of my own
martyrdom
or emotional state..
he was not any different
the brushed alabaster
the wooden bed
the “yellow,
like fresh butter”
the contrived meaning
of his growing
affection
how else could i explain the
pulsating snap
of our spines ?
the impression on
a coat of wet
paint?
he is-
he was the bedroom in florida
i hung him in the hallway
and
i don’t think of him often
but great softness
is haunting
even when shuttered
and discounted.
– sheila c.