Park Bench (day 113)

It’s seventy degrees in November

Empty steam swirls through my lungs

but every day is a sunrise I let sit on my tongue

till it bleeds more than the strawberry juice

I think I just tasted yesterday, so

I sit on a park bench and listen.


This wood can’t tell me anything

I can’t soak in through my skin,

this horizon’s fading silver

and the air glitters blue


They say the world can’t love under a cover of frost

but sitting here I see it kissing the coming winter.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 11/16/16

Park bench

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