Afternoon Metaphors
It’s time to erase all the markings on this page;
To breathe the dry silence of bougainvilleas.
Unable to endure the squeal of thoughts,
I wish to send them to pick marsh flowers.
And loosen my hair in Niagara spray;
And dry it with some bone white chalk.
A basket of the berries I had wanted to pick
Is hiding somewhere near a granite slope.
If I were a pea, I’d brood inside a pod;
If I had a tail, I’d dip it in blood.
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