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
implications
how i wish i
could deflate
and be cast into
a new role
and pretend again
that i'm living the
life
i need to be living