Mike Bucell – 2 PoemsMike Bucell
2 PoemsThree Colors
A heart always in October:
dulled nostalgia compressed
into cold orange sunlight.
Orange like her hair:
a bright blue sky
framed her sadness.
All memory is yellow:
a forgotten birthday photo
sits on a filthy sidewalk.
The sun has almost
completely faded the boy:
a dark shadow in all this light.
Sunlight is certain:
distinguishes blue from green,
sky from grass,
brick from billboard.
It sharpens air and sound:
I hear every word you say,
the cresting rush of highway,Pull
the rumbling Blue Line,
the long spaces between your words.
As on a warm, bright day after
heavy snow, ice melts,
water is pulled back down hillsides
and slopes toward some unseen center.
That same pull keeps me from standing
when she walks toward me holding her shirt
in her hand. Her shirt drops to the floor.
It is this pull or draw that holds
her here now, that keeps her from rising up
and out through the window like a balloon
that slips from some young boy’s grip.
She walks across the room toward me.
Her feet fall softly on the floor.
I am rising to meet her now.
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