Warm summer eases against
my skin, a kitten, pawing
for affection, pawing for
attention—the grass beside
me is envelope haven
and the wind, which raises my
hair in caress, is a friend,
it sings, only ever friend.

But I find myself resolute:
tight-lipped
arms-crossed
brow-fixed
sat, shiftless, in the midst of murk
determined, sort of, to sift through the mist
but not sure if I seek clarity
or more
clouds–

everything is damp! When it could be warm!
And how I long, I yearn for warmth,
for the feeling of warmth which I feel
I should feel
but don’t.

How old am I? Who can tell?
Who inhabits this youth of mine, this mind
of manners and catastrophe alike this discordant
palate of unsuitable means—they look at me,
they do, and I know what they know.
Incongruence.

Westerlies, cold, rabid in
form, emotion, the color
of purple frosting on a
savory sandwich, ripple
across my skin. My body
responds: gasp, quick, internal
sound waves, rippling movement
up then down, spinal canal
like ships at race for kingdom
come—

my arms uncross and fall
to my sides, as my breathing
regulates. Uphale and in
my knees to my chest, and I
wrap me around myself—and here
I find it’s mellifluous.

My skin shows me I am cold,
but my blood answers otherwise.
I’ll burn out here, if I seek
too long for the umami
of skin temperature, veiled
by cloudy perception. The
sun is good when the mind is
ready; should skin take the fall?


The reader brings his or her own perspective to a poem and gives it meaning:

2 Comments on “Dissonance

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