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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=553573" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>From High School</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Don’t you feel that we really belong because<br>There are windmills in your eyes<br>Darker than for your mother’s sadness when she goes<br>Away into the loneliness in her kitchen: <br>And there doesn’t have to be any more reason for these<br>Tattoos except that I went away to Spain so many odd years<br>Ago: <br>I barely graduated high school: a truant with a purple <br>And silver jaw who is no longer beautiful-<br>Lost so long ago: kidnapped by the long extinctions of fireworks: <br>Each peeling whistle strangely reminiscent of our lives together, <br>Until collected under another school bus, I have nothing<br>Else to do but to listen to the long day as it rains<br>In fake knives- and my Muse named Alma turns in, <br>Frowning over my misuse of the queens language and all of <br>My scars, scarred like a spearing pylon <br>Presumptuous in the bay that the terrapins circle, with jokes<br>And farts, as she bites her fingernails, <br>And the green cannons bask in the seashells of the afternoon sky: <br>It might as well be Easter with the beauty resurrected there: <br>And the airplanes like metamorphosed school buses, <br>And the stewardesses languishing there, high atop the <br>Revolutions and serving drinks, smiling with the affable <br>Insouciance that I remembered all of my sweet hearts giving to me<br>From high school.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Bret+R.+Crabrooke">Bret R. Crabrooke</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=553573" data-title="From High School de Bret R. Crabrooke" data-description="Don’t you feel that we really belong because
There are windmills in your eyes
Darker than for your mother’s sadness when she goes
Away into the loneliness in her kitchen: 
And there doesn’t have to be any more reason for these
Tattoos except..."></div>
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