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.