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As a child I thought bathing suit was “babing” suit
something for babies.
Dark green leaves hum in the rose bushes (of them, of them)
as bass guitar nestles in a song.
You only see them for what they exploit or
explode: the flower.
The color. And as a child I also thought I was safe
something for babies.
“Break out the cannabis!” my brother said,
words creating (but not of) him
And they all bowed to us those flowers like we were
famous or something
“But don’t you see how the still objects of earth do the same
thing shadows splayed out like
obsidian arrows flocking toward their target
angels frontlit bowing
to some faceless God.” God I used to get so high
and pretend words were bricks
since then I only pretend.
Selden Cummings is a poet and musician from Santa Barbara, California. He currently resides in New York, where he is working toward his MFA at Columbia University.
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