Poetry... I know so interesting

The pull of secrets to this
empty page
the anticipation of an empty moment,
captured under a glass jar
like a spider,
and tossed outside.


I am a watermelon
sweet, more water than substance.
Red, bitter around the edges
cold and full.
Spit out the seeds.



Things we only knew
from our whispers.
Or from the tap of free rain.
Stories told around the campfire
while tilting to avoid smoke.
They sit in there glass cases
and stare out at the faces.
who never understand.