I have not looked out the window for weeks
weeds will break me to pieces,
they seem too much like weddings I’ve escaped
where the groom and bride are useless
to everyone but each other, then pulled away.

I think they look beautiful. I do.
The way females palely grow tousled with
tree limbs, cautious not to snap one with weight
and go tumbling from hilltops
dead blades of grass penetrate their kneecaps.

Neither are quite green or brunette
but in discernible loveliness when falling from
a girl’s skin, a satellite rained in cherry beads.
I must say I am in love with the gore of it
needing a heart to pump, but I cannot watch
               as their minds dive within.