Leaning On Water

I’ve been listening to dark voices this weekend, the kind that drain oceans, leaving plastic bags and broken coffee cups behind. New projects and poems are moving but nothing is willing to be born. Nothing will look at a page and settle there. My fingers hover over a deck of cards on a screen, choosing words and discarding them before the pack flies off and I hit again. But I trust. In a universe where these nebulae exist, I trust.

No editing this week. Just this:

After Your Diagnosis

Words line the wire stretching
its highway between us, lit buses
blinking in and out between
the darkness of trees, fireflies offering
their scraps of light. Semaphore
would be more useful, the flags’ waving
ushering the sun into your lungs.

Or so I think. What do any of us know
when we set out? Pictures show
survivors, the way a forest grows
sheltering ruins. Tree tops
and clouds, birds floating
on a wind blowing us away
from the furrowed earth. Rip you open
and minerals might glint, might not.
Either way, you’ll burn.



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