fire me towards a career
or something
(any/or/either/neither)
because i haven’t been
playing music

and i’m starting to seem
the emaciate-pit peach on  a too-tall
tree of plenty
just out of reach

of tantalus,
waist-deep in a river
of cornsilk braids too
rich for eyes, too coarse for tongue or teeth

garden of goddesses
wielding life-flow
geometry
keep the
hounds and
ghost-things
at bay.

undress a smoky corset,
tendrils, or turgid
rapids, swatting
ceases less
twining strands
than flies.

i wish it away,
woven comfort,
a web of fraying
calico and red tape,
bearing the weight
of an arachnid slew.

yet away with it
yields my downfall,
tumbling branch
to branch,
unfeeling, unthinking,
but for my parachute.

i lost a life
to watching
a mirror and
the marker in my hand,
but it could not stop
the leaves from drifting,
nor the water from taking the leaves,
nor those leaves from disintegrating.

simmer down,
shudder breath,
breathe deep
&center