MASTER

When I sing I make my hands into little
giraffes. They are enjoying traveling light
eyes open for the fleshy bits. They are
already one already two days old. Way
out here the opportunity for pickin
is an ocean. They swim in it while I sing
notes of a cold, dry highway. It’s packed.
They do not know what to say. Though
I love them I know they rise better than I.
They will go for one for two more days. Then
come morning they will grow the pale stair.

—

By Yagmur Akyurek 👍