How do we
show you that
this is not
something we
want to be
fighting for
'til we pass
torches to
children who
just begin
fighting where
we left off?

Empty suites
and a sea of tents
on the rainy streets.

Now the oxygen is thin
and bodies lay in snow-capped caves
we'e weighted down by heavy lids
carrying today's rations
and yesterday's burden

one of your breaths is three of mine
sleeping as easy as seeing
in white-outs too far up
nowhere is warm anymore
and we're telling tales of altitude sickness
while coughing into our sleeves.

For a time I wrote poems on the subway
my eyes were bright and green

I grinned and spoke in crystal tongue
and wrote what little I'd seen

I didn't see what I thought I saw
as the seed sees not the ground

but perennials in summer fields
will watch the bloomers assume

that photos keep their colour
when instead they leave no room

for pictures on a dreaming wall
lifted out of you

now I sit writing poems on the subway
a duller shade of blue.

I saw myself on the bus today
standing slightly taller
I cut my hair, had stronger arms
and finally tailored my sleeves

I saw myself, a better version
a glimpse into another time
where I was me and not myself
and things must have been different, right?

but then I saw the look on my face
the same tired grin in my eyes
and even I from another reality
would see the same as the real me.

This idea
of gardener and flower
is the wrong idea

we are both gardens and gardeners
we tend to ourselves
and sometimes we share seeds

the more we share seeds
the more we grow into each other

so one day soon
we may be one garden
tending to the flowers together.

I saw myself on the bus today
standing slightly taller
I cut my hair, had stronger arms
and finally tailored my sleeves

I saw myself, a better version
a glimpse into another time
where I was me and not myself
and things must have been different, right?

but then I saw the look on my face
the same tired grin in my eyes
and even I from another reality
would see the same as the real me.