i am loved by a man
who would wrap me in grapevine
drag hip and hair through hayfields, sing an owl's song in pitch dark
and call me always, his wicked, wicked cell mate, his moon, his north
in a spit
of flame
i am five blue hues
six passive notions
and a lean toward the door handle
none of which casts a warm glow or earns proper ceding
and on a dark stretch of night
i hum an unplanting
of dogma
of fire
of a dormant daisy, long since bloomed pretty
in the ditch; smoke fills the car
maple leaves burn red and orange
and a cat's yellow eyes stare headlights
tomorrow he will not come when called
over and over again
he will not return
my hands are busy creatures; stringing words together, tapping time in my lap, unraveling blue thread from the hem of a coat
m
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
good luck@!
Though that's not the point of the poem of course. I'll hush now. 
