Invasive
Flowers, insisting on a meadow
Mustard crawling on the freeway
A place,
like an exhale
Your room/my heart
My body/your body
Planes insisting on barren sky,
on rain
Icarus
If I stand too close
an Icarus of my own making,
crumple my stupid heart,
a thing of wire and feathers.
Hold it still
this stubborn, half-melted thing
hurling itself toward you.
If hope is the thing with feathers,
what do I call this
sunburnt, obstinate thing
that’s crawled into your hand
waiting for you to make a fist?
