Saturday, March 22, 2014

Another Poem Draft Yet Untitled

Dear one, were
you older,
myself
a little younger,
fewer crows'
feet
tracking my eyes,
cellulite my
thighs,
I might seek
the audacity
locked
in my box
of books
molding
in the attic.
I might
untape
edges, run fingers
against cardboard
lips,
ease open panels,
knees hurting
as
I bring myself
down, down,
closer,
closer yet still,
breathing in
dust
of everything sitting
between you,
me
and the robin
singing in
spring.

Katherine M. Gotthardt
Copyright March 22, 2014
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