Climbing on the fence
looking up, up and seeing
some murky stuff hanging about
the stars or maybe they’re just
hiding. I get that. The need
to disappear after burning up
whatever was left
after the great stuff
was named. I have a name
too but it’s as forgettable
as whatever I do in my days.
I like to cling to the fence
at night and sing loudly
whatever comes to mind,
as the great stuff rolls through me
and I’m left with a murky sky,
a sore throat, and a place I’ve made
by letting go in a big howl.


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