write

windows are without

scarves of morning

without murmuring

shelves

the eyelid is sewn and

the mind won’t purchase

sunshine or stray beams

that find ways to linger

prefer the room to be a

cave, an alcove for a

grief worn coat where

only winter holds sway

my wander thru’ empty

where the rigid pines

are skeletons trying to hold onto

water, a bare moon scowls

there a silhouette of myself

mainly looked thru’ or glimpsed

as someone else, may as

well be wreathe ready

i cannot perform this daft

symmetry that days seemingly want,

or perforate the social stream

a strobe light of acceptance -

i see as interference, curl the

corners into ignoring, rain

applauds each suicidal

hurtle, teardrops wet comets

synapses won’t allow the outdoor

trouble of a hollering doorbell,

messages internet on the wind

don’t breathe such sepsis in

there are martians going about

their cyclone visits ridding the

minutes wasted them, no one

can pilfer the head’s silence

windows do not know that

night has spread it’s silhouetted

jacket, the room’s sentry a clock

has been dead seven months

i’m counting sudden constellations

they burst from constant surgery,

thirteen more and the idea’s planet

will it steady upon its axis?

was the root worth the desert?