contrails of cirrus
like kitestrings are flung
cross a June evening,

laundry lines of the summer’s
sirensong, a rumbling
in the stomach of my soul.

it nears storm season,
longing anticipated before
lightning even

touches down.
the wind builds
castles of our discontent, dust

scattered like glitter &
unicorns ‘cross the page where
we grub out with the back

end of a no.2 lead the lust
which would hang
us up to dry. do i

already drip? i cannot
remember how
the next verse goes.

my black marks
are wound like
kitestrings ’round

but a single wrist, tight,
untangled (and i think),
still my own.