I guess you’re thinking again
sitting in your quiet corners.
Breathing in a smoke of warning signs.
The world can’t see them
flicker in the strangling hands of
fallacy.

You’re sitting at the table.
Aging.
Side by side
with the left over Chinese food
in the Chinese food container that is
disassembling itself the same way a
child  attacks fortune cookies.
It sits politely behind the
egg salad of Thursday morning.

Wooded windows
boxing your view from expanding.
Hinging your thoughts on the refrigerator door.
Open and close open and close ope…
Oh no,
you dropped the blueberries and spilled the milk
again.

You are pacing now.
The creaking of the floors
join in the rhythmic movements of
your nightmares.
Sleep becomes a pill you take without absorbing.
The hole on the west side of the house
grows in inches of the rain.
Once again you have no umbrella.
Water drowning the splinters that you implanted,
digging deeper in the skin, hopeful
anything of anyone might
grow.

It’s three o’clock and on the dot
you’re humming with the bees.
The dying bees, the
overworked bees,
surpassed bees,
the
under appreciated
bees.
Bees of a radical movement that you,
unfortunately, have no
direction in how to assemble otherwise.

Pain of the sting is present but
your stripes have been ripped,
Leaving you embedded in a
bare basin.
Waterless, the crackling of
fragile skin
echoes in the hollow eyes of
a blank fortune.

The clash of glass against the metal in your kitchen
clothes you in the warmth of ice as it coats your
throat.
A tongue of a battered mother
licking you off the pavement
of someone else’s mother’s
battered floor.

You’re standing there again.
In the hole of the west wing
sinking deeper into the creator.
Her, taking captive what always was hers,
never caressing the fact you
belonged.

Rocking chairs creak on the porches
off the energy of run on
conversations.
Doors squeaking open, silently,
just enough to let the air in
but keep you out.
You are ajar in being confined
to yourself.

And back to the fridge you walk.
Mumbling in a slightly negative tone to the
overcharged fruit you bought.
And once again
the Chinese food container just fell off the side of
the table.

When did the lights in the room dim?
You said you were going to change the
lighting so that
you can see
and
she can see,
but wait…

You’re walking back to the table
waiting for the day to rewind itself
so you can go to sleep in the sheets of
decaying faults of beauty.
Hoping, when you wake up
you can re-grow what you think you can
try over
again.

Tumbling around in air that
struggles to breathe.