HOLLOW & GREY

There are clearings everywhere, meadows
stringed through my spinal chord. Short films of sky broken where
they stand. Yesterday these quarrels turned into rock and flew away on
italicized wings, taking all my non-perishables
to the market where they'll gather dust and eventually negate themselves.

With the forest so nearby
the subject can become impossible to live with, thrashing wet sheets away from warm flesh,
praying a welcome written in goodbyes - the stainless steel closing in
on his surgery and education.

To gather kindling in a clearing, the average
human will see fit to cling onto their love, to bring a sharp hatchet.

Even the high grass sings fast into the night,
dried by the sun, beautiful cadaver.

To burn each tree for the carbon.
Insufferable is a season.
This month is famous for its color, for the firewood harvested in
backyards and for the clearings of intent. The grand lost harvest.


If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be(?)
& why would it be(?) &
wouldn't you rather catch up with your parents or jumpstart your heart which pumps slower each morning despite your wishes.(?)

Every time is the first time. Nothing paints your life indellibly.


Maybe your electricity has been shut off for delinquent payment ten times more than you've actually felt good or worthwhile in the past five years. It's inconsiderate to your station, to each man or woman puddled next to you, to pretend "Hello" means something different to everyone. Akin to a salted nail stuck in your wrist. I'm only trying to say hello. To explain away my persistent silence. The ground counts quick and I only sleep when I feel inadequate. Years of October. Each month October.


I take quick breaths, shape dull cuts,
wrap you into my fingertips and be-
come low again.
Hollow and grey.