The future used to be tomorrow.
Remember that?
Lying on our backs with our eyes
lit by the fire's glow, our hands
to the stars, our plans hurtling
towards us, raining from the sky.

The future used to be tomorrow.
Remember that?
Floating on our backs and if we
didn't have a sunrise, we'd borrow.

Water and wind build the air
up thick and the siren slices it
clean across the middle.

Across the suburbs and towns
people gather their books and
their computers and hunker down

in bathtubs and basements, tucked
into hallways with their feet splayed
amongst their families' shoes,

listening to dark skies and music
and other sounds, working by flashlight
while the fireflies drown.

I am the boat as it fills
with water and drops
like stone, and I am
the crane that pulls
it up to the surface, and I am
the knot that comes undone
and the boat that falls
again in earnest.

In the morning before work
I sit on the floor and pretend
that it’s dirt. I look out the window
and pretend that it’s church.
That gods of the earth and sky
and space all did their research
in collaboration to be sure
that today is worth it.

I need a little something
to remind me I should start.
A little piece to click in place,
then no more broken heart.

The sunlight filtered
through feathers splayed
hits different when
the wing is stayed

The bolt on the door must be thrown,
so out of bed shrug my shaking bones.
We are a pile of tired connections
and joints creaking over the floorboards.
Shadows and wind hit the window and
every stir jostles all these pieces.
We ask the streetlights for help to shine
and the trees for help to stand and even
the stars for help to fall but those things
are outside, and we are in here.