Like clay I have been shaping a melancholy
for you. It is solid.
It is real enough, sterile: plant
it and it will grow
nothing, nothing. A hood
to pull over your head, to disappear in.
A rotten peach, deflating,
losing form. A handful of feathers
thrown in the wind. A diaspora—
formless, but still solid.
And what do you have for me?
A mania. Wine
drunk delusions.
A person’s shadow,
sprouting where no one stands.
Photo by Egor Myznik on Unsplash
James Champion
James Champion (he/him/his) is from Whitehall, Michigan. He has a bad habit of looking only at his shoes as he walks place to place, but this makes arrival, and the sky, a constant surprise.
Find him on Twitter and Instagram.