Shownotes
One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.
Unnamed Season
Jules Travers
He lives in a peaceful territory
of his own,
relatively well-defined.
In conversation with his selves,
he navigates daily weather,
rainbows,
mirages,
sinkholes.
Now,
can he still live with himself,
with you?
Your eyes align,
two shapes of water join, sun-lit,
know themselves reflected.
He feels your arms.
He broadens,
flattens
and retreats,
enters spaces filled by air
and phantom.
He waits, he listens.
Voices surface.
He slips into marrow
lit by the gasping mouths
of scattered self-sustaining fires.
He fractures.
He falls.
He pools heavy,
turns, raw, smolder.
He scratches notes
and demolishes boxes of tissues.
While you drink your morning
coffee in the next room,
he makes his blanket
a mourning shroud,
he hibernates
in jumps and starts.
He heaves open jammed windows,
specks of old white paint confetti his hair.
Curtains bloom.
Now,
he perches on the roof.
Now,
he shows you proudly,
with some astonishment,
there’s a new row of feathers
in his wingspan --
pocked with blushes
and frowns of color,
asymmetrical, but his,
a wave of growth unique to your shared ecosystem,
brought forth
by an unnamed season.
More from Jules Travers ↓
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