to the now-birdless fence tops,
the season has given its
two weeks notice:
soon, the gardens will grow
naught but radishes.
Crows are more available
as literary devices. And I
am still waiting—still
grieving the gaps
between all I had accepted
yet still hoped to accomplish.
But if I thought it would help
to re-lengthen the days,
I would promise to light
my own life on fire,
minute by minute, one
soon, the gardens will grow
naught but radishes.
Crows are more available
as literary devices. And I
am still waiting—still
grieving the gaps
between all I had accepted
yet still hoped to accomplish.
But if I thought it would help
to re-lengthen the days,
I would promise to light
my own life on fire,
minute by minute, one
task at a time. In exchange,
I’d entreat you, heaven:
come blow me out again—
and in doing so, send my
presentiments flying
to whichever afterlife
they’re already doomed to go.
