I wanted to uphold the sky
With a bit of twig fallen from a dogwood tree
Or to puncture the soul of the season
With my standing still. Not everything
Is about motion. Not everything is about motion.
Not everything is about motion. Stop.
This day calls you out.
Backslaps you just like the day before so you
Don’t know which is the worse prison:
spindly fingers, decaffeinated coffee, nose spray.
I am new to that shade of red
The fallen leaves are painting in the ditch
On the road to the joyless buildings of the city.
This is what one man said to another:
I can’t help tripping over that line
You drew in the sand. What kind of marker
Did you use anyway, you fuckwad?
Amelia Earhart never dreamed of clouds.
She patterned her plan upon ancient words
That women had stored in backpacks
Left in caves invisible in the sky.
There is no excuse for it.