Poetry Wednesday

The Underpass

We

have come to beams,

boosted each other up,

wedged our bodies up and beneath the road

like nests

that love their BlueEggBrownBird babies more

than ever we’ve  loved a thing

kept safe in the warm rounded pit

of our bellies.

I do not see a motherBird.

Annnnnnnd, something not-mine that I love:

I Remember
By Anne Sexton

By the first of August
the invisible beetles began
to snore and the grass was
as tough as hemp and was
no color—no more than
the sand was a color and
we had worn our bare feet
bare since the twentieth
of June and there were times
we forgot to wind up your
alarm clock and some nights
we took our gin warm and neat
from old jelly glasses while
the sun blew out of sight
like a red picture hat and
one day I tied my hair back
with a ribbon and you said
that I looked almost like
a puritan lady and what
I remember best is that
the door to your room was
the door to mine.


Alsoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
This is my 100th post yo. Celebrate.