One
where there were once
many, I take comfort
in the night, in the
creatures who
play there. Room most
familiar looms uncomfortably
large. Words form not
in my mouth, but
rush out the sides.
Phone rings a lost love’s
breath, no voice,
only darkness. Music
plays, something pink,
as bandits sift through my
memories. Parasol of past lives,
broken at my feet. For the cry
of one small creature,
I crash through the glass
to rest in the arms
of the familiar.
Season 4
Scraps of me
litter the streets,
collecting like leaves
in storm drains,
lining the beds of baby birds,
stuck and gooey
on shoe bottoms,
shadows of a life
not poorly lived,
but passing,
black bits of mildew
spotting its edges,
great conversations
brittle and fading,
the once
sturdy exterior
showing signs of
peeling.