woke up woozy today, pulled
reluctant shades & attempted to
tie the untieable day that refused
to knot my spirit's knees hurt
from wearing too thin-soled
mocassins that absorb too much
street you never know what
a bright warm day really means
the first does not necessarily
describe the whole year is a
necklace, beaded with days...
last night we yelled yay
and flipped the calendar page
falling up and waking down
my life is not a staircase i say
leave the easy quiet to enter
the too quiet city still sleeping
off the previous year still unfinished
our dying is tall and almost
too bitter to drink.
swallowing the ash of this morning
that does not feel like the first though
it's pleasant, and will do. this morning
swears it's a village beside a volcano
that survived the annual tantrum, but
found us blinking and smothered in soot.
maybe the gulls know because there's a flock of them,
all lined up on the roof of an abandoned brick school,
windows patched with blonde boards, gulls perched
along the edge, facing this rare winter sun, while a few
dogs chase balls flung by cleaved hearts on the green
grass below. i continue past
the catholic church with its now
sleeping bell when something shiny
bends me down to grasp a tiny,
metallic butterfly wing, which i pocket
for a future to give to anyone who will
pour me some warm flesh.
this morning i walked alone
to discover what was closed.
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