but i am to be
added as a postscript
to all things-the disaster
after such poetic things.
sometimes the sharp
distance leans across
my heart with fingers
meaning to puncture

what do i have left
but old skins with
haughty remarks about
times i had been less
careful and given away
this soul

dry seasons,
trees with forests of
stories, red satin
dresses with

how i wish i
could deflate

and be cast into
a new role
and pretend again
that i'm living the
i need to be living