Poetry Brittany Cagle — February 12, 2015 10:01 — 0 Comments
Bustle – Brittany Cagle
Old age is flesh close
to the bone, the shrunk spine,
bruises spidering and eyes cupped
by purple crescents.
A flight of bees
swarm deep in the chest,
dark, disturbed, restless—
but what?
The tongue
cannot filter words
out of the buzzing
and begins to braid itself.
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What am I?
Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies
Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,
Consequence;
Scientists can't find me.
Januswise I make us men;
Glamour
Was my image then—
Remind me:
The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…
Tick, Tock: Divine me.
-- Richard Kenney