Achy bones,
Bend, grind, snap—

Yielding dust, bottled—added
To the crumbling sands,

Ground up bones
That had made bread

For a lifetime

Before being rinsed away
Like sawdust in rain.

What lives in finite time?
A bird's nest invaded, eggs
Squashed and eaten.
Sands wash out and crumble,
Churning to the blackest ocean.

What lives in finite time?
Bloated roadkill baking
In the detonating sun.
Moments that may last forever
In a liminal collective.

What lives in finite time?
A glass jar, buried miles in gray
Hardened clay.
Letters written but not sent
And stuffed in junk drawers.

What lives in finite time?
The flickering of a bulb
Tightrope walking until its
Breath gasps, giving way.
A cliffside always found.

Wine glass—
Sediment dusted,
Pieces cast scornful nights,
Red-stained carpet soaked,
Collecting damage
That waits to shock the future.
A wineless stain, for the
Once white fibers do not
Matter. The gnawing crunch
Of the glass underfoot
Is at the bottom of the heart's
Black hole.

Fools with hearts
Underestimate pain
Until they are met with
Inconceivable rain.

It's easy to chew on
Melancholy time
Until they are met with
Something more kind.

He tires with certainty,
Locks himself away.
Turns into a ghost,
Disappearing for days.
A cup that is empty
Waits for time to heal all.
Surrounded by noise and
Feeling so small.
A buffer is the night with
A new given chance.
For him to recover
Then rejoin the dance.

Are blueberry skies
Over strawberry fields
And what flavors rise
When they meet?

Do the clouds taste
A bit sour or do you
Suppose they're sweet?

Singled out speck,

Imperfections—

Bullied into boxes.

Locks placed with

Dancing keys then

Thrown away.

A blemish known,

Soiled.

All a lie—a truth!

Puzzle pieces perfect

On their own, no worry,

Untethered, and

Free!