gray feathers
trickle down in the frigid air.
the atmospheric pressure squeezes me
so tight,
like the room we held our noses in
so we could absorb maximum confidence
and squirm
        and twitch
                and build a fence.

once the hour is upon us
i’ll take my own hand and riot.
i’m used to it.
you haven’t even tried it.

now the floor is to the left
ears fill up with tears
recollecting nearby fears
to string on to a necklace
and give it to the next person
that looks at me with soul.