Soon. Soon.
Whenever won't be long.
***
Things are sad.
Sad like thrift store crowds
and the desert beyond
the Walmart lights.
Sad like fat hunger and
the smell of break rooms.
There's grass here, he says.
I haven't seen grass in a long time.
Her lips, like boiling clams, open.
***
Blood red veins of the cork
like the trails of ants.
Summer: we eat fat pears
and drink straight from the bottle.
By Jackelyn Hoy
1 comment:
Jackelyn Hoy has had poems published in Alehouse Press, The Orange Room Review, and Seven Circle Press. She currently lives near Chicago where she spends her time reading and writing.
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