cento for april 2021

it’s late, and it’s time

for being threatened with death.

beneath the skin,

i practise all the reminders.

i am looking for fresh words,

small promises.

i’m not convinced

and head to the kitchen.

i say too much, and

it empties us more—

the weakness trying

to explore and mark

our stores

before we forget them.

what is there beyond heat?

birds,

the weight of words;

have we forgotten

you, love, and all the ones you hate?

it was sunny and

i found a secret door

for beauty.

the grass will be green,

even now.

you asked me to dance,

or someone did.

maybe there is still more to say:

old things can be renewed.

i’m not yet dried out.

let’s try this again.