I don't think about it any more
I take out the trash
noting
Sticks caught in the crotch of a tree
The wind does what the wind does
breaks weaker branches down
does not care where
it leaves
them
on its invisible way

Days do what the days do
they don't count themselves
worthy as they go
to release
the afternoon
to evening—
an artless
emptying
to a low spot
where tears tend to pool
if I'd let them down

“You know,
in that low spot
out there...?”
Where it's hard to see
Where its hard to care?

They take heart
out
divide it by energy
for sadness—
I haven't got

Watched the clock go round
wipe out my little plans
with relentless hands

...and I never got dressed today

too drunk honeybee,
stumbled out of the flower;
wind whisks him away!

Dear Journal,

     The wheel turns on the black Bic lighter and conjures a restless spark,
thus igniting once sincere letters. In turn, arctic winds are evoked at dark.
Couple's ardor inspired prior to her departure abroad to Denmark.

     Confederate embers scorch paper, but less so than this dolorous heart.
Blazing in solidarity on a barren porch; a pyre for finest silks torn apart.
With weeping wounds cauterized, the true healing now just starts.

Sincerely,
Rekindled

She has never built sandcastles.
She has never toed the surf along the Gulf of Mexico.
She's only ever known these mountains;
these cold, granite monuments to impassibility
that reduce the sky to slits,
somehow managing to make the heavens smaller.

Half closed eyelids with their own trap-door gravity.

Short lives last eternities too
and there is beauty to be had
- even here -
It's just that everyone should get to build sandcastles sometimes.

securely encrypted,
the Milky Way and beyond;
my billion nureons!