beacon on the breast
of rolling
crest-

a shade brighter
than last
storm..

tore the paint
from this

ol’ brick
tower

holding
vigil

through first
breath of
morn.

if life game’s
to master,

may i always
play fair,
but-

ask me to fake nice
and stroll
lost

through
mazes

like a pale mouse
in car’s rays-

run down each
night?

i care,

but won’t be
there to

play fight through
day smiles

too bright
for

you.

shadowed by
a thought

about the power
in each
word

of years
shed-

tongue tied
around

my
head.

can’t quite
breathe,

think it’s
the weeds,

not my notch in bark
of a dry
tree,

for nobody
to see

through the
leaves.

it’s a flood of
lighter
fluid,

it’s my shoebox
to put the
match
to

watch smoke
wave from
trees,

no
proof

in the ashes
of me.

mind’s slack
discipline

never finishes off
a milk carton,

that last sour
swallow..

left to taunt me
tomorrow.

window seat
over

flares on flattened
concrete,

blinded by
runway sparks,

anything to take
the edge off
before

the take
off

starts.

considering dark
desserts

brought up and
mopped
before,

thought we’d
be lighter
on our
feet

yet, here we
kneel-

unhealed at
yours.

there’s nothing
to unpack

cause next
layer’s

just as
thick,

yet
softer,
somehow..

there’s still much
hot blush

in wild blood
rushing..

through us
now.