Poems from all.walker
If I'd gone outside I would have sweat until I melted into a puddle, so I chose to sit in the kitchen until the air conditioning dried my skin into cracking crevices that exposed my bloody interior. Such was the afternoon I subscribed to Power Poetry. Poetry is a sort of maddness.
Under the blue hat her eyes are made of
arctic tundras,
polar ice caps,
the blue sky reflected on unbroken snow.
At the other end of a...