10 am
Wednesday.
It’s cold
Only a little
And over us
The clouds are biting
Only a little
Out of the blue of the sky.
10:02
Wednesday
It’s too cold
My toes are numb
And the fence is crisping
Under a half finished
Sun.
10:15
We are crying
On a parched ground
As if
We didn’t laugh
Over breakfast.

5 days ago the moon was dark
Deep blue
The color below the water’s surface
Below the depth of your eyes
Lowering softly into the
Cup of wind
Pouring itself over the broken edges
And scooping up everything you spilled.
5 nights ago the sun set early
Rose early
Unfolding it’s arms like it was welcoming
It’s unseen fate
Ready to crash
Into your open eyes
Embracing the halo of mist
Around your muddled palms
Never forget the palm of your hand
Never forgot the creases
Swimming below your eyes.

In the middle of the street
the lamps are making
creamy ripples
of smooth
midnight.
Our voices
are not too sharp
on a dark street
of sleeping windows.
We are talking about shooting stars
constellations
and rolling down the roads.
Our clothes smell like asphalt
and our fingers and toes
are grey.
We are playing games
on a Friday night
and pinkie promising
our college dinners.
Looking into the future
we try not to cry
we try to preserve
like fresh fruit in cans
one last year
of this.

As I walk
the expanse of land
the spots that have burned
the spots that lay
greener even than before
spotted light
dappling a rock's cheeks
and mine
cold
pink apples.
I see the sun's the same as before
it has not burned
for it has always been burning,
and it is still warm
and smiling
a familiar face
and my cold Winter hands
upturned pale palms
to a warmth
I am not afraid of.
To be afraid of flames
is to be afraid of sparks
and the sparking inside of me
is coming back
so as to not diminish
the other hot hell
pink
hot red
my cheeks
and the rain.
As I walk
the expanse of land
find trees
that felt pain deep in their bones
and their deep wooden stomachs
I collect myself
for the sun still shines
and if the sun still shines
it shines on me.

The sounds of cicadas
Stings my ears
My ineffable sky.
The lamp
Who sits crying
By the coffee table
Stings at the dark
With it’s masochistic
light bulb.
The metamorphosis
From worm
To wings
Raw
And sharp
Stings at your fingertips.
Fire flinging
Unborn sparks
Towards dull and
Uninhabited grasses
Stings my uninterruptible kingdom
Like a fleeting wild horse.

My life has been
Thus far
Like a sidewalk.
Each blue gray square of new cement
Creating a thin and detached line
Between the last.
The grass pops up between each
Massively insignificant slab
Like little finger puppets
They pop up
And talk to each other
About how much it must hurt
To die.

There is panic in the fig leaves
and there are wasps
in the mud and in
the grass.
The sun is smiling up there
dusting the clouds off
picking up the broken limbs
of overgrown trees.
We are all walking
glancing over our shoulders
shaking hands
and stuffing table grapes
in our suit pockets.
We are all tying ties
we are all signing papers
and breaking bones
and tying shoes.
We are all babies
warm to the moon
cool to the sun.
we are all holding our hands
and naming each other.
Let us dance now
before we forget
how.

Circles like squares
like cracked skin
and blisters
and Saturday mornings.

Shapes like your eyes
or the eyes
of a passing car
and Saturday nights.

Like they could even really forget you.

card stock heavy
in your chest
like Valentine shards
you cut cards
from the thickness of memories

They told me
I wasn’t acting like the season.
This season is underripe
Undersaturated
The grapes are beads
Hanging
From massive limbs.
The rose buds
Are discolored
Pale
And bitter.
Upstairs the paint is melting off
In massive chips
The wall is revealed
Sun tanned
Jaded
And sad.
They told me
I wasn’t acting like the season.
This season is overripe
Acrid and moldy
Brown alcohol
Pooling at the bases
Of decorative pears.
The leaves
Are too old
Shedding ancient tears
And falling
In order to catch the ground
That is laying cold
Beneath you.