Getting some air

An old man’s blood
is not the same as
mine while I write
this. No.
An old man’s blood is old.
Mine is not old yet.
My blood is young
like girls in a choir,
believing the Word
as they let it escape
from their rose red
lips, quivering like
the rope I hung for
the acrobat, before
she fell, spilling her
young blood on the ripe snow.
An old man’s blood
isn’t wept over like
this. No.
But I should tell you
the acrobat wanted to die.
That is why she was
an acrobat and not
an accountant or a

written on 12/27/2010 by: Matt Kane