Devon Fitzgerald


wreath in my thoughts processing too soon,

blurred photograph dreams of your soft hands on piano,

my skin tattooed with fingerprints, inked

with unknowing kisses

and I need more beers for your poem, laurel,


living in the earliest versions of love

as I play a tune behind my throat.

it sounds too much like regret;

you'd hate the music in my mouth,

melancholic laurel who loved pine

the word and its predictability

while I needed cicadas, unclothed possibilities

messy, like words scratched on a bar tab


and you'd not be exhilerated by my breath

or lemons on tongue--

you miss the sweet every time.


it seems you're supposed to mean something,

I forget exactly what

Euphemism Campus Box 5555 Illinois State University Normal, IL 61790