I couldn't even... Wow. This was intense, for lack of a better word. I'm moved. I loved the imagery. Sometimes it seemed a bit... I can't even- wistful? I'm stunned into speechless-ness. It's great. I loved the lines...

"i will lick the edges of time and staple
together a scrap book of girls with lovely names
and the man with checkered eyes smoking a cuban
cigar and the woman with cottage cheese legs jogging in the cold."

These. These must be heard, in my opinion, because they are wonderfully written. They all are. Congratulations on your gifts.

The only thing that stopped the fluidity of the poem for me, is in the 3rd segment in the first line "Spoilt"... That mildly irked me because I had to go back and re-read it a few times. But after I realized it I much appreciated the imagery and language.

This is an amazing poem. It was a little spooky though as it felt as if it whispered to me and I held my breath reading it. I don't feel like critizing this at all but will just say it was wonderful. It has got great imagery and I especially like the "like the way death seeps into the elderly" amazing image created there. As for the way this was structured it is not the way I would write it as with the lack of even lines and capitals, yet it works just as well. The ending was mysterious, yet seemed to sum up the poem quite perfectly.

Thumbs up for a great job, I'll leave you with 5/5 icky, sticky spiders and move on to my own, less thrilling drafts.

Good Luck & Keep Writing

// Sagaaa

"i don’t think i can do this anymore
because it is september and july
was just a breeze and june was nothing
and august was the heat, sweltering and sticky
and flights that were too cold, up too high
with too much hanging on a line that fate,
with her red viper lips and long dragonfly dresses,
could have cut."

I like the look of your structure. I am also a big fan of your work normally, and this is no exception. I like how you compare months in this poem, the breeze with the heat, the coldness with the heat. It's got a nice vibe to it already.

"i will spend these months with bedhead
hair, in sweaters that drape over my chest
like fog. i will lick the edges of time and staple
together a scrap book of girls with lovely names
and the man with checkered eyes smoking a cuban
cigar and the woman with cottage cheese legs jogging in the cold."

I love how, like Persy, you don't capitalise your lines. That isn't an error at all. It is a really good thing. It gives the poem an almost endless vibe, as if it is in a middle of a sentence, what is a fairly unique style to have. I like how you used "bedhead", by the way. Very inventive of you.

"i think that winter has spoilt like month old milk
in an apartment that lost it’s electricity. it is no longer
white and quiet and numb. it is furiously cold, cold seeping into
our jackets like the way death seeps into the elderly.
it is grey now so grey grey grey and nature refuses
to forgive the city for what it has done."

This is a beautiful contrast to the breeze and heat of previous months, again a suggestion of a bipolar climate. I seem to get the impression that this part is abou some sort of pollution, as nature can't forgive the city. Maybe this is the issue of industrialisation, and the burning of carbon emissions (or maybe I'm reading way too deep into this).

"i hope autumn treats you
and i hope the salt that you spill around
your heart keeps the demons out."

I dunno whether this is hopeful, sarcastic, a warning or all three rolled into one. Either way, a very interesting way to end your poem.

Oh, and I know I've said it before, but I love your work. Seriously.