NaPoWriMo declares day 11 as a sapphic poem day. Honestly, I had no idea what to write about, and I have been listening to too much Andrew Bird and Sufjan Stevens while reading Neil Gaiman. I think it came out, but you might just be lost. That’s ok, so is the protagonist.
Listening to Andrew Bird for three days straight
She only hears violins and whistling.
Surreal walks within the city, she sees them.
The Birdmen, the ghosts.
Sufjan Stevens invades her senses, soaks in.
Her feet they jingle and twiddle: light, eerie.
The city dances and weeps, wrapping her in–
hearts an open fount.
She cannot stop being taken by their voice.
Her own betrays their lyrics, warbling and sad:
at bus stops, in showers, at bars, while sleeping.
“Her boys”. She calls them.