What he saw was a weathered ruin,

-and he saw beauty. The lines, the stories,

the cracks letting in light.

She was well-worn, had been used

and was tired of thinking

about which foot to put forward,

sort of missing the point (if there is one).

She felt like a whale gliding through

a thick fog over a fallow field, mixing

metaphors like nobody’s business,

just to remind herself she was alive.

He saw and dismissed her fears

as inconsequential as rain,

knowing rain in torrents can bring

ruin but also life to a desert.

The article I bookmarked

about pressure points

seems a little silly now

since I don’t feel I’m dying

as swiftly as I was before.

Something about the way

I’ve been stripped down

to a place of no judgement

and no real time, just an

extended living daydream.

There’s freedom anywhere

if you realize chains

can only hold what is

here and now as long as

you let go where it counts.

I’ve become a leaf poet,
reading the veins
like a story out of order,
knowing substance
is often found
in the margins.