WIP 9th Letter

The yellow letter
Number 9
I can’t fathom the more dangerous work.

In my dressing pocket,
It’s a yellow nine.

I get my pancakes with extra syrup
When my husband makes breakfast.

I understand the shape of my body.
It is large and unrestricted.
And to come upon desire
With a desire for hidden light
Is to make lemonade in sum.

Daffodil,
Cream,
Egg yolk,
1980s hotpants
All 9 of my colors are yellow.

Taking emotional plans,
Airplanes,
And you’ve gone over the edge with my name.

One book is very simple,
Don’t take 90 years to decide.

Moods

The state of the art fog hides me.
When traveling I go hand in hand with the saints.

The tunnel is at the end of the light.
There is no difference between my moods
And my imperfect soul.

Yesterday is gone,
And his ashes were scattered by train.

Boiling water must be discussed in the pool.

My needs and desires grow
Like kudzu on you

Taking them from me is not stealing,
A label that disposes of bloodletting
To quiet its memories of such a beautiful heart.
You better not see it.

Nice need.
Silent seed.

My tears flowed.
As if the stones had struck every one of them,
They were tearful themselves.

Dark with coal mines and invisible cradles
I’m not enlightening.
I am not black.
here stands the misunderstanding of all His glory.

Newspaper; a decade’s worth of spandex.

Darkness circulates through the air
As a free agent in chaos.
I skip home above the ravine,
Watching the spectators struggle in the gorge.

I have a huge mitochondria
Sitting on my desk.
It is not a model,
Just overgrown.

It likes chocolate bars.

My students,
Alive,
Watch the mitochondria
Squeeze and wriggle on the table.

I rub off my dead skin,
Ease it into the alien world
Of permanent energy,
And watch the lights dim.

Sick blue saxophones see the thermal inferno.

He has said “I will never lose the true facts.”

She has said, “I will never abandon my corners ”

Music drifts to hell.

Where will they go in the silence that follows?

Shivering yelps race to the edge of audible.

There are always claws on our edges,

Steering us away from the yelling
The time spent idling in swimming pools judging extra colors

And into a song on repeat.
Even the acrobats and ballerinas will die in the end.

It was my last gasp
That fluttered across the wind.

Stars do not stoop before moons,
Only before an invisible God. Ringing the multiverse with fire.

Moons are delicate,
Sound like flutes as they spin.
Moons are sleepy debutantes
Over each devouring body.

Stars, arrogant,
Give each other more space
Than is wise.

Guiltless and capable,
The butter knife lounging on the counter.

Butter is soft and weak,
And hates her,
Uet through her dulling days
She never forgets butter.