Amy Blakemore

There's something so bittersweet about this poem, but it's one of my favourites and it appeared on my deviant art today and thought I'd share it on here.

The day folded;
Like a Cabbage White closing its wings
On a windowsill.

With the old, worn-out risk,
the unexplainable, skewed
trigonometry
of drunkenness

you climbed the fire escape.

Got on the roof.
But once you were there, you
envied the stars

their height

and could not get back down.

- Amy Blakemore