santos scribes

 

when the moon is dark 

my imagination is 

illuminated 

like light  

returning 

like its never 

left  

my desk becomes 

a fortress 

laid with an escapade of scraped paper, 

pencils, blue light glasses, 

and notebooks, sure 

but also,  

flat stack rocks 

piled four high  

for balance (of all things)  

too 

and the week-old yellow tulips  

are soldiers standing, buttoned high  

and just returned from war 

there too, a giant lump of shapeless pink salt 

the micro bulb hides inside 

for activation 

i’d rather be dust on the moon 

go now, your turn 

fill in the blanks; your blanks 

fill them so full 

they become blankets 

or at the very least 

something else entirely 

about this poem

while writing this poem I was having trouble discerning exactly what I was feeling and where exactly I imagined the poem might like to go. each underlined word is the word I ultimately chose to use but another word could have easily been used instead; imagination won out over “playfulness” and/or “angst” here, this time, but next week, who knows? this poem is meant to be playful and thought-provoking.. what will you fill your blanks with? thanks for reading ! xo,s.