This worn Samsonite will not be savored
by guérillas in moonlight.
A week of lit ferns
took a pinch of kosher salt
to make a comfortable nest before the break
(in which a tomb-like quiet descended,
calming but for the most irascible eggs).
Carrying on without a handle
as best as I can with nary a hook or pincher,
I decry grey twill and welcome post-rage
somersaults as I add layer upon layer
of raw sugar (in-leaf), begging for
reprieve even as my legs push past
the buckle of freedom,
a little smashed but warm like carnival dirt.

He did me no favors
when he stripped the landscape smooth,
neglecting to mention the importance of insurance
(which turns out to be a myth).
For a moment, I thought I’d die
in the the face of such worldly concerns
as stuffed mattresses and plastics
but there are few deductibles in heaven
and fewer bonuses in hell;
saving up all your nuts in a tree
distracts from the simplicity of replication
and the necessity of groovy dance.

Moth balls and plastic grass
hold a childhood summer day
in its musty cellar
with coffee rings and aprons
ready to embrace on the settee.

Days used to be longer
and yet I can’t hold on to what they were,
from the sticky threads connecting them
to the breezes pushing them further away.
I wash my face, hoping for clarity
but my eyes keep falling closed.
The air isn’t empty anymore
and sometimes I forget to breathe.
Using my limbs as cautionary tales
while maneuvering sideways,
the music doesn’t seem right
though I can follow the cues.
How long should I follow?

Maybe it will be like this
after the end of all things,
a mosey along a lush narrow path
with a big view of the strange and beautiful.

Somebody was celebrating mornings
but I forgave them.
I opted for pastry over hopefulness
and mentally traced the map
from where I walked in youth
to where I found my footing now
and without dropping too many crumbs,
laughed with my mouth full.
Somebody was venerating the past
but I forgave them.