they seem to grow slowly
until you see the photographs.
moments of time passed.
rewound through a lens,
hidden behind glass.
when we're paused
a vision is more clear,
but no one lives that way,
my dear.

ring by ring they count-
pausing at the middle,
and winding back out.
scratching at the bark,
chopping away the limbs,
peeling apart the leaves,
frailty never wins.
it's a shame they didn't know,
you have to **** it before that will show.

skyscrapers make the clouds cry.
they speckle their windows,
darkening the view that was promised.

window washers risk themselves
high above the puddled ground,
wiping away the sky's autograph.

too bad they didn't check the forecast-
could've saved themselves a trip back.

some find comfort in the fullness of the moon,
for others this body seems to rise too soon.

I wonder what I would find if I connected
all my freckles and moles.
I'd go number by number,
until there was a web of ink woven up and down my body-
across my back, down to my belly and legs,
up to my palms and back to my shoulders.
I bet it would be beautiful somewhere.

people come together and move apart
like the sand that lines the ocean.
built into castles,
broken down by a careless step,
washed back to sea.

I used to play the cloud game in the stucco of my bedroom walls.
My eyes confined to the few feet surrounding my pillow,
finding hippos and continents before I drifted off to sleep,
always comforted they would be there when I woke.
If you ask me to find them now,
all I'll see are nail holes.