By: Blake Pipes
I stand as a pig in gestation
by the pale pity of your doorway.
A hook, a clatter, a steady humming grind.
The pleas are precise and repetitive,
but this corner holds fledglings and fumbled roses,
each an orchestra of thorns.
Recursive negation lingers in your faded scent.
Lungs crumple open and closed
and my arms are breaking, my circuit board fists dribble crimson,
cracked with petty red dots against the glass.
There is no death, merely seeds
that grow unbid first within crevices,
then permeate walls;
they are the blooming thistles of a garden incomplete.