Also on the Tip of My Tongue
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
The tiniest of buds you cannot see
Sprout out all over. Skin becomes all blooms
On every haired and hairless part of me.
They do not think that they will suffer dooms
Imposed on other blossoms — clippers, death
Or drought. These buds assume that they will save
Right kinds of lungs like sonnets rode with breath
Of Keats before his chest began to cave
Towards coughing fate. The buds on me expand
And stretch towards you. They reach like little hearts
Agape for love. They cannot quite command
You. You like God must nurture gardening arts.
Fraught buds are on my ever hopeful lips
