I despise this melancholy
that gathers in a hot lump
at the back of my throat,
scorching my forehead
burnt like violet.
A spotted, brown bird
spirals upward, until there
is only shining.
I ache to disappear in a
grandmother's braids,
wrapped up tight like
infancy and shaken loose
in the night, or to fall into
the valley's sunset breeze
climbing like summer dust
towards immensity
to paint brilliant
the horizon.