Two Months In
Once I was on a green peninsula,
wings of dream-sized buzzards
filling up the hills,
breeze playing me like a flute.
Once I was out in the crisp light at daybreak
crunching down a gravel path
because something had to be done.
Once I was inside the warmth she weaved
around my recalcitrance.
Now I cling to my sheets until dawn,
when the roof rises to bear my feet,
my feet to carry my caged mass.
Barefoot in a heady shamble,
I gaze at the city
that sprung up while I slept,
terracotta heating my soles,
sun tasting my crown.
Every lonely death rings out in the bountiful silence.
Now the sky speaks.
Tell me about the weight moving through you.
What do you clutch for on the back of a horse
as it wanders loosely away from its stable?
How do you make the block of heat breathe you?
How do you spin a stone into dark waves?
How do you stay where your catches
are sometimes just out of reach?