steve nash is 35 and is good at jumpers,
and i write poetry about him
while replaying silent movies of my first kiss-
and thank god there's no facebook picture up of it now,
because the snow hit and i still tasted lipgloss.

i've seen a lot of car wrecks on 2-17
when my mom was driving.
we never took the back roads because she likes to drive fast.
but now i live in boston

like a kid outgrowing a snowglobe-
first the elbows hit,
then the spine folds,
and the spiderweb leaks mercury.
grasping glass,
standing upright naked,
cold shower of real air

like a witch trial victim-
morbid fascination with the weight on my chest.
pebble by keystone piling
gleeful lung compressions-
while the eyes, no longer mine, fixate on a finch,
and can only wonder why the wind pushed it so far north
so early in the year
Some stuff like the Steve Nash bit in the beginning seems like it could (and should) be tossed in favor of streamlining this a bit. It does a fair bit of meandering as it is... and I feel like the stuff that really isn't necessary bogs it down.

I also disliked the "but now I live in Boston" line. It doesn't seem to add any depth to the piece as I see it. Maybe it has some content which you think is necessary... but it doesn't change my read if I don't have it, and it reads so much smoother without.

Everything else was crisp and nice though. Good read apart from those few stumbles I had.
I actually enjoyed the Boston line. The traffic is terrible, so no one can "drive fast". Your last stanza read wonderfully aloud--my lips feel like a tight bass drum pounding when they pass it over. Personally, I see the first stanza as lacking a strong correlation with the rest of the piece.
Quote by ottoavist

i suppose there's a chance
i'm just a litte too shallow to consider
that maybe i've been a little more eager
each day to wake up and take a shower
brush my teeth and smile for the mirror
i like this piece of the random thoughts into it. i love the last stanza of a witch trail victim an experience of getting crushed with the weight. i could picture myself back in the purtain days in the 17th century proclaiming myself an heretic to the community an dying a slow death. not a very happy though tho. anyways enjoyed the creativity.