by Matthew Zangen
Your want is a galing devotion
and I am neither your leaf to sweep away
nor seed to sail or sojourn;
I am not to be sown or cornered
by your peddling covenants,
I am the bird on the branch
screaming at clouds.
I am your passage, an ardency of seconds
drinking from the bare of you.
So I abscond
with the ambitions of this rooted tree
fruited by your toothsome whims.
This, love, should be prized,
not plucked by lonesome tongues
or drowned by rot of time.
Posted on 10/29/2019
Copyright © 2020 Matthew Zangen