This Juvenile Rope
Well—so this juvenile rope
Hangs us as we won't go out and light the wicks
With the dragons coming home
Over the equinoxes—while our fairytale fathers fish
And look up at Saturn,
And can never be resolved if this is actually the place—
Maybe a beautiful uncle paints a mural in a trailer park
On the other side of the canal,
While something else plays on our television—
And the ghosts leave the burned wings of our paper
Airplanes—and go outside between the cypress and
Melaleuca to explore
And explore.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
Added by Poetry Lover
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