Ethanol and Other Biofuels

She trips over
her pride (or is it
her rogue heart)
to get to the door.
Falls to hardwood
beneath her.

Bruises form
so easily.
Healing takes so much
longer now
than when she was
a reckless fish. When

bicycles fit
perfectly between
rows and rows
of Indiana corn.

She’s tired
of waiting
for discolorations
to become paintings
that hang
without frames.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s