I threw out my squishy heart

and sucked in all the toxic developments,

exhaling into a blood-red sky.

.

I don’t see much beyond my toes,

but I know there’s more out there

than common genes and mislaid dreams.

.

The wise woman in the muumuu at Wal Mart

was right: days are long, years are short,

and we pass down suffering like fine china.

Heel-toe, boots in motion

stiff branches gently wave

flying scarves smack of treason

lashing faces upward gaze

–

Slowly shifting

silent planes

crossing visions

songless days

The forecast looks like

a death-defying leap into

an unanswerable question.

Monday’s heaving footballs

force the path to deepen as it narrows,

the air a heavy burden,

carrying yesterday’s disappointments

as though they were more precious

than the fool’s gold of sentiment

we use to barter with the gods.

We are legion in our confusion,

voicing theories and forming prayers

into mournful shapes on the tongue,

rolled between hands otherwise useless

but decorative as they flick the light

around us up and away.