Sub-glistening
The wood burns.
Red nubs spark.
On a black match
Stick I smell smoke.
Blues call the police
In the breeze.
I mash the phone
Her nose and Christ.
The tarmac lands
Cornice against
The pink teeth.
We cut and plonk.
Our hairs tangled.
Streams above us
Roll and ring deep.
The nectarous night.
Grand Gorge
The hornets hatch.
Summer and vermilion
Hurdle through windows.
Springing, hill-like and glass
Sprinkled in gravel. Three stories
Drop. The breeze brush of
Your face. An exclamation.
A slushy, running sound. Our
Mouths, spread and open. Barn
Doors expelling pollen
And livestock.
//
Boona Daroom's work has appeared in LIT, SOFTBLOW, Nashville Review, among other places. He lives in Brooklyn.