Pockets

Standard

there are pockets into which
i plunge my hands,
bring forth a shell, a song, a day.
sometimes they sit on my palm,
cooperate as i examine, turn them
over and over, hypnotized by shiny bits.
sometimes they scald me, soon as i touch,
and i suck blistering fingers that
taste like iron.

there are pockets into which
i plunge my hands,
not everyday, but often enough,
and bring forth fragments,
a shard of spine, like a whispered vow,
a pebble, like a lyric.
sometimes the small weight of these items
provides comfort, but mostly
they tease and mock, tiny tongues poked out.

there are these pockets into which
i plunge my hands,
occasionally to brush up against yours with a twist of thread, in the way we always knew it would be.

***

Originally published on my other blog, The Story of Blue 

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