Wrist Deep

A Sonnet Minus The Line About You

Somehow, the florescent light comes upward
from the yellow yard below and casts shadows
through the blinds like diagonal prison bars.

Nothing is right. Nothing is pure. The air is tinted
with a tinge of darkness, even in the day. And all
my poems about love are tinged with dark. I wish

I knew how to make things sound more like how
I see them, surrounded, always, by petals, like you;
the way my knees have shifted into falling,

the way I’ve fallen before you like a meek flower
(you being everyone I’ve ever met, and not you,
or at least not the you you think, but greater)
in the heat, bowing to a power I still do not know.