Word have wrought weight
off your teeth and into the center of
one year and multiple mess.
Early spring,
and the mud breaks free from
traps set by ice.
Vestiges of blank stared days
send messages in the night.
“Come down up the stairs,
do not fall,
your thoughts carry anchors.”
I never find the time to say
anything in reply.
Fingernails are still down to the skin.
All the pens on the dusty desk are lined up in neat lines.
Sleeping still when clouds come to
sweep the day away.
Amidst ruins and broken trails
a smile lifts my head off the floor.
Having a head in the clouds only
ever makes one blind.
Wandering makes for the merrier
with a beautiful face holding up
a map for me.
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