Most days I am broken
breeze and glass
eyes. The pinched
notes of a disenchanted
canary. I have grown
so tired of this corner
of sky. Of this splintering
air. Of these gauzy
clouds that cannot translate
my sorrow into a language
you will understand. I want
to wade out to some faraway
meadow. To wait it out
among wildflowers. I want
their petals to cradle
this uncertainty. Truth, in blades
of grass. And your
voice, lifting in a shiver
of mist, singing a song
I forgot long ago.