even oak angels molt

Dried palms crumple to the soil of these streets,
blazing fields of sunsets on every
suburban lawn.
Amongst these crinkled veins, grains of harvest are reaped,
scythes slicing the youth from their homes -
soldiers rising from reeds, instead
of breeding bodies there.

We hide behind dark mornings and yellowed streetlights,
breathing water into each other,
learning to swim in our lungs.
Our sightless eyes are directionless,
life caught in our windswept hair -
lice, bought with our boyfriend's bedbugs,
in the weaving of bodies bare.

It's easier to bury oneself in a sea of remains,
easy to bleed out in a world where color
will soon make us blind.

i must have read that last stanza like ten times. this one's a keeper.

Sara -


Dried palms crumple to the soil of these streets,
blazing fields of sunsets on every

**'blazing' is unnecessary and throws off the sonics. I'd combine this line with the next, which does not seem to be carrying its own weight by itself.

suburban lawn.
Amongst these crinkled veins, grains of harvest are reaped,

**The shift from suburbia to "crinkled veins" is not adequately set up. All of a sudden the reader finds himself in another poem.

scythes slicing the youth from their homes -
soldiers rising from reeds, instead
of breeding bodies there.

"of breeding bodies there" seems off the mark. I gather you're trying to say that they are captured by a self-made metaphysics. It's not a bad observation, but it's not a smooth journey from the blazing fields of sunsets.

We hide behind dark mornings and yellowed streetlights,
breathing water into each other,
learning to swim in our lungs.
Our sightless eyes are directionless,
life caught in our windswept hair -
lice, bought with our boyfriend's bedbugs,
in the weaving of bodies bare.

** Ersatz profundity.

It's easier to bury oneself in a sea of remains,
easy to bleed out in a world where color
will soon make us blind.

** Yet another shift. The bus needs some shock absorbers.


Best,
Brad