High on saccharin, placebo sugar-rushed
she’s dancing close to paper-
cold from ink-washed stares.
Her hands are skies and kites,
for crows on naked boughs.
Bloodstreams: oily rivers (parasitic veins)
sucking life from townships out of tune.
Hopscotch backyards, sins and tousled fringes
glued to skin,
She’s the princess of dandelion eyes,
broken glass and velvet.
She was old the day she left the womb.
Just a little poem written from sketches I’ve had in the cloud.
January 9, 2017