A blog and burrow by Nicole Buzzelli

Shapeless

The more lines I draw, the less shape I got. But I guess, the more shape too.

Mercy
Poetry Nicole Buzzelli Poetry Nicole Buzzelli

Mercy

The instruction is clear: be obliterated. By which god and
his devil, I don’t know. What; what to do? Let the wildfire
run its sticky fingers ablaze my shiny, new wings and pluck
them clean off, even after all that precious time spinning silk.

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Ode to Limits
Poetry Nicole Buzzelli Poetry Nicole Buzzelli

Ode to Limits

My first pair of glasses bridged my nose
at eight. Grow in thickness every year.
'And what about laser?' they all ask.
After sporting them for less than a minute.
After laughing. After handing them back.
'I could,' I always say
because I could.
I could, but what would I lose?

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