The trees have been caught
by webs, windows. Fat fingers
fumble to crack old patterns. Our
books are packed with phrases, but,
have emptied themselves of
feeling; I guess they must have
h eard me coming. Thunder threatens
my veins, gloom looms, the flora
blooms, only to freeze in the
anxious haze that these
stretched-sigh nights create. Stress stitches
ripped skins, I wake up most mornings
in a puddle of milken moon, there
is no such thing as
clean air. We wear
bright hues in an attempt to
choose the path of least pain, want
to undo our names, find people
who look the same. I don’t
know when we’ll learn.
