always sorry, I make amends,
to break the slender branches
over and over, anyway;
fall down and sigh,
run away and
I'm so **** scared that everyone will see me
for the frightened child
I never grow out of.

the broken wings
I'd made those aching flight plans for
bled out:
open plain smoke
for seventeen nights,
days,
and the boundary crossings between them.

so, that vast sky,
built of shards and shards and shards,
oppresses, on high,
still, above, ruminating or dwelling,
upon cold response;
like I,
the small thing, on a small rock,
too afraid of heartspace or,
second takes
or,

just,
I'm sorry,
for the ******* I am.