I dreamed of blooming

I compose poetry behind closed eyes:
a man comes in talking bout okra & the clouds are herds
of the freest you they have not killed yet
a cloud on my tongue
a hand in my hand
a web round my shoulder

nina simone saying,
take these laurels,
& the summit of universe,
keep them in a brown bag.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s