2018 / poetry / author
JEREMY VACHON
UNTITLED
…
When I try to paste words
to what happened they get
twisted
and ruined
beyond recognition
But somewhere, sometime,
those words will stick easy, neat, and clean.
You just have to figure out how to get there.
“Will it hurt?”
I ask myself.
“Will I be the same then as I am now?”
But
I look outside
and see a car crash through the grey snow melt.
“Spring is ugly,” I say.
All of the mountains of plowed snow
blackened with exhaust,
and the mud staining everything.
“At least, at first.”