Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash
dripping light moss
night clouds
spilling gossamer smoke toward
the earth
that soaks up the dark
spackled dirt & stone
like cheesecloth—
hidden, in the small corner of the heart
a seed won’t grow
rimmed in shadowed soil, won’t
stretch its rooted fingers
How this mask hates itself
as if tiny cockroaches made love
behind the leather strap
bliss soaked in sex & spite—
but when it shifts
the picture underneath shines
O yes, like a lamp
it shines.
Michael Buebe is a poet from Galesburg Illinois. He is currently studying poetry in the NEOMFA through Kent State University.