A somewhat edited version of the poem I wrote Monday night.
A poem without verbs
For everyone who thinks my poems are too much like stories
Or maybe that’s just me
Wine in a smudged glass as dark as the scab on my knee
A crash (the noun) the concrete of driveway
The house where I…
The house, the big brick house
Crumbled (adjective in this case), vines on the east side,
The sun side, four o’clocks and snapdragons
And the wild chamomile and mint
That smell of apples and fresh breath.
Wine sweet and sour and dusty in my throat
Sweeter than sweet on your breath when I…
You, the sweetest thing, at fifteen
Body a perfect arc in the air. Chlorine in my nose
Heavy on my skin, and yours. My body heavier
Now, your beauty still slim and radiant
Eternal mystery, how even then, like to like,
That first kiss, stolen in the locker room,
Recognition, impulsiveness, youth.