She said she collects pieces of sky,
cuts holes out of it with silver scissors,
bits of heaven she calls them.
Every day a bevy of birds flies rings
around her fingers, my chorus of wives,
she calls them. Every day she reads poetry
from dusty books she borrows from the library,
sitting in the park, she smiles at passing strangers,
yet can not seem to shake her own sad feelings.
She said that night reminds her of a cool hand
placed gently across her fevered brow, said
she likes to fall asleep beneath the stars,
that their streaks of light make her believe
that she too is going somewhere. Infinity,
she whispers as she closes her eyes,
descending into thin air, where no arms
outstretch to catch her.

it doesn't seem that i can get high enough
                                                                          or low
to find a reason for b r e a k i n g this cycle
                                                        cycle          cycle
                                                                  cycle
of trying to become drinking buddies with my demons
or unconscious of the fact that i'm slowly letting my passions
                                               die.
i'm empty
on the ins
ide but at
least i loo
k ok.