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.
