It rained that Sunday
like riot in the streets
after midnight.
It was hellish,
but still I wrote you love letters,
drowning—
sewing up problems
I didn’t yet know I had
into poems.
They were numbered
and in-
famous.
Remember how
you tore them with your teeth,
like cotton candy,
melting
the sugar of me
funneling the storm drain?
Sundays are better now,
but December rain
is a trance
between fall
and spring—
the stuff of smoke and legend
like books burning
with enormous heat,
as a poet girl dishes—
not instantly,
but fat and sizzling—
crammed
frozen into blue
Rorschach inkblots
on winter’s lonely, cutting, bony page.
Shay's Word Garden Word List: The Prodigy
My first attempt at using all the given words, with a couple variants.
