There is a heart the city keeps in the basement. It does not wear a stethoscope. It hums through manhole lids and sighs out of vents,
By Milan Milic5 months ago in Poets
I found a shoebox in the dark behind a winter coat. Its cardboard spine is still whispering like a paper-throated throat.
The lesson starts when you mistake a spark for a star, When gravity teaches your open palms to be hands, when streetlamps dim just enough to remember the night,
The roof remembers how we turn toward weather and light. Your vow was copper, spinning slow in the square of the window.
Our living room keeps theater hours long past evening’s news; The curtains won’t agree to close—they yawn and then refuse.
They crawled up the stairs Fists of concrete fought for freedom Not limited by limbs or doubt or privilege Powered by necessity and determination
By vibrant ghost5 months ago in Poets
At two a.m., the world goes wide, the clocks forget their keep, and we become footnotes of light—love notes at the edge of sleep.
At dusk, the living room grows lips; the patterns start to speak— a flock of tiny ivy leaves that whisper at the cheek. They murmur from the plaster seams in threads of cream and gray:
The taper dwindles in its brazen stand, Its light diminished to a trembling thread. I marvel how this force I cannot command
By Tim Carmichael5 months ago in Poets
I found your name behind the glass, in coils of chrome and light. A snack-sized fate with foil shine that flickered late at night.
I sort the thunder from the sighs and the reds from bleeding blues. The mornings that unraveled me from nights that stuck like glue.
Heady, potent. ~ (inhale) ~ Your syrup Lines my throat, ~ (exhale) ~ As the taste Lingers On my tongue.
By Paul Stewart5 months ago in Poets
