The concept of the small jacket

White in the manuever pockets full of pens.
What could it distinguish?

A burned out house,
whose charred glass still cuts
it leaves a soot scab,
waiting to be picked.

But in birth, each lining of lint
resembles the placenta.
A tether to the reality
of comfort, placed so readily
to the side, where the
milk stains hide in the balance.

Each jacket is alone,
Cuffed to the sleeve,
where the button meets the zippers,
the teeth are home here,
brushed back into the eye.

Hold on.
hold on,

we are almost home.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s