sometimes I wonder
like a clock-worker, twitching gears and springs
why we are programmed to fight for each other's survival

I watched my sister wrinkle;
crumple in place over problems for which she
lived and for which she cried
for those she could never stitch back whole.

what is it
when self-programming is charted and mapped,
through simple fixes like plants and a weekend spent painting
empty gridded sketchbooks and hand-picked
letter combinations,
that makes us turn to those who fall apart in our laps over the inability to place
into the proper places their springs and gears

I'd like to spend summer making you look at the sky and realize it's blue because
you woke up this morning and noticed it
but maybe I will stay here protecting
my plants and my paintings from uncertain puzzles,
wrinkling puzzles and springs