Eighty: Sting

Stop scaring me away;
I just want to write a poem about you.

Your voices fizz under Nina Simone
gently and potent, busy, busy, busy,
merry-go-rounding the blooming bottlebrush tree.
It must seem like a forest to you,
a fushia utopia of nectar and sunshine.

You whirlpool from flower to flower
in your jail stripes,
pinching what you need,

and I’m not scared anymore

until a grey fucker decides to rest
on the stray strand of copper hair
much too close not to scare me away

even though I’m the one who wanted to write the poem


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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