A pea without a pod, I dawdle
through rose virgin streets, doodling
stick figures of my aspirations, duly
noting the veined way in which I’ve
failed. I wish I could cut
the corners of my body. That I was
better at reading between my ribs.
It’s reasonable to doubt the lack
of damp between my legs; to be too
of the space but
still want more.
In this city, my footprints are too light.
My voice is high with shyness.
The clouds haven’t delivered all of m
yet. I still play
connect-the-dots with constellations at night.
Rimbaud rainbows ring around my irises;
buds hunting for buddies.
Bright, barbarian desires dipped in warm mornings.
I walk around with maps trapped inside me. I am
fat with hope; a shadow of potential whispering.
I don’t miss the wilderness.
I would rather melt into the tram lines and light up the city.
I am not a blackout. I am electricity.