Shapes
and patterns
This
entire life is flat,
With
blue sonograms floating.
A
white ghost travels my mind,
Puncturing
the ambrosia of nectars.
My
walls are chipped.
My
nail clutter is lost,
As
if I can not be mended.
Sickness,
weed.
Palms
on my belly,
Trying
to uphold the lines of spring.
Trying
to smooth down
The
freckles of winter mourn.
And,
Analysing
is deceptive often,
A
human eye is a stitch of time.
And
we end up in shapes and patterns.
--Andy Golub
