Warm lungs hide soft words, say it fast, faster.
Poetic dark room, grow teeth and watch closely because
believe me, life was, at one time, meant to be worth living.
Broken means finally perfect, wings heavy, sinking,
Iron-sure anchor felt like smoke,
looking from tree to tree as the leaves flutter down like pages,
mirrored birds watching, walking the covered ground, actions set in silence,
golden and grey, tell me you understand because someone has to.

Blame the glass oaks that swore not to bend,
blame loud smiles and blame body and tongue,
eyes held leftward, downward.
Different years feel shorter, the farther they get behind us
the harder they are to see.
Feet fell flat on rough asphalt, try to work no matter how you feel,
new talk brings new futures,
forced laughter leaves curves smooth
between silences.
I’m sorry.

Hard head made of clay from the ground he learned to walk on,
Dad told him when he was young, "Son,
there is a whole world past these city walls, but you will never see it."
"The wind is made of hardship, dad.
Everyone knows that."
He remembers the grit of his father's palms, rough on the back of his neck.
Righteousness is not always painless but it gets the job done.
He figured if he wore his roots simple and strong,
slung them over his shoulder, they’d hold him to the ground.
And he would bite through his own tongue,
for what else do his roots do but hold him to the ground
when all he really wants is to float away?
He wonders, singing out of open windows,
is any of it worth fixing?

Bring the winter, the shallow dove
writing bitter songs beneath the edges of her sleeves.
She caught happiness in her butterfly net when she was a kid,
but she packed that away long ago.

Raising a match to his cigarette, fighting tremors in his jaw,
he sees Satan across the street but he doesn’t wave.
Hell is a short walk from here in every direction,
any direction,
and despite what she’s read she decides hanging
is the best way to get there.
After ten Hail Mary’s and five Our Fathers,
she ties her best sash around her delicate throat
and makes the short jump
to forever and ever, amen.

Pressing intentions found in old books, fighting flames,
unpleasant conversations,
"Christ man, can’t we talk about something else?"
But she reminded him of satisfaction, of branches perfectly bent,
frozen, refracted and solid, fitting.
Shivers run rivers of liquid metal down his spine, amorphous.

The eighteenth time unfounded family found him
he blew the fire out in one quick breath
closed sleepless eyes tight
and wished with all his strength for death.  

Whispers grow, stone walls grey concrete,
rocks, trenches, I’ll be home tonight, he lies.
Paint burning skin with red lips, heavy breathing,
they could have danced forever.
They could still dance forever.