metaphor for the middle of May
although near sunset i walk
the same barefoot circles
round the same gravel despair,
morning finds me
prying last autumn’s leaf fall
from the damp spring earth,
letting the soil breathe a
chance for the emergence of
new green.
alone
i sit inside abandoned silence,
wonder
how many more
tears can possibly fall
before my body
exhausts itself
of moisture,
my eyes, my skin,
my veins
dry up
and my heart
turn to husk,
a clenched fist made from
four caverns of stone
?
untitled
a bone-wrenching hollowness
sucks all coherency from my worlds,
blows through and over me in gravel
on monochrome knees, jags pushing
blood to my palms and fingernails, the color
gone from my heart, my face, cold;
like hers.
awaken
opened eyes
to a blinking cursor,
blank page:
a winding-sheet for my
thoughts, wrapped up in
themselves, leaden;
lacking
inspiration, expired.
they keep carefully to the edges,
tiptoe around the truth
which threatens to hit
them like a gale, knocking the wind
right out of me, tormenting;
it was lack of
breath
that brought us here
in the first place.
