In between the Lighthouse and the Harbor

Guest Poems > sunny

April's come at me like a horn blast - through me.
May comes at me like exhaust,
the humidity creeping in like carbon monoxide.
Last night's rain seems to have rinsed away the colors
and only crows hop
from branch to branch like clumsy, dirty griffins
through the scent of cut grass, the sound of rolling tires,
a closing trunk.
In the seat, hating these
static faces, like a mural on a stamp,
as vibrant and real as Polish nobility,
Hope cramped in the unopened box of Pandora,
ashamed to shine so brilliantly,
illuminating
such moist grotesques.