by Sirama Bajo
Water sailing the tarnished reach
the dogs off leash, round path
red voracity of space in waiting glass
an armful of stoic violets in May
the garish bent and closed upon
calling an organ
revering it as organ
picking through the pack within reach
colorful as the month of March landing upon
the so called path
we cannot help it so we bend as we may
glass molars, hair and heels, everything glass
no time for measuring such glass
lungs push air through organs
spill the blood of April and look towards May
burdens fold into themselves in order to reach
an open path
through decided words, stones laid upon
and far from upon
the sea cries out in its bits of glass
awarded our own collateral path
distance silences the blue organ
holding out the bend in an attempt to reach
is it May?
yes, it’s already May
all in the contours we feast upon
a language within the firing squad’s reach
why men, not women keep time outside an hourglass
too violent a space for the sound of an organ
you sat out the month, the wake of its path
mourning at the wake of its path
what comes before May
it is just a collateral organ
the opportunities we seize upon
an autobiography framed behind glass
a sequence of steps don’t make a path
cowering path that winds its reach
a glass season ends in May
a month upon the organ’s tremor
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