The afternoon is like
the bristles of a broom;
I am swept away by
the dance of
grass and blade

If the trees could
speak, our hearts
would hear of
the atrocities our
bodies committed
while we were asleep

Tomorrow is neither
here nor there

I wake up, brush my teeth
rub each arm down with
lotion, and light my
lips with ruby red
matchsticks

I open my mouth
and set the world
ablaze

The evening is a cardinal
resting on the perch
of a Northern Red Oak

and as it sings, my age sinks
deeper, and deeper
into the abyss of my skull

where memories sit like stones,
the voices trying to claw their way out;

going on and on
about what history means,
and has meant to others

As the night approaches,
a death throe emerges;

the grass places soft kisses
against my bare feet,
and I cannot
see color, but feel
it

in everything.