poemsickle

Reconstructed from bones up, we will be colorless -
skin to cover anger no more
and nothing to make us strangers
not the way I trill my r’s, or the way
these goosebumps on your skin remind me of frogs.

Truth is in the bleached bones, and life
is a kleptomaniac of truth. Lend it a hand, you say,
but what of the forsythia? In winter

it stood bare in its bones, and I didn’t parse it
sun-yellow

in my dim hours