My half done vows are cast off, murmuring
on thermals that loft them away
Better to shrug off the future,
to see the dead through the skew
end of glass. Every plant is prose. Every barn
grumbles with the unfed. I am the pent-up
proof, a caul in sheets, practicing in a mirror turning
the other cheek. Spring will never speak again.
I will have to pheasant down the sheath,
halo-haired, with my id muffled
by curtains of skin. What sums approach
as sunrise’s rash spreads and roots sting the earth?
My heart, in cyst. My erased face spent.
Every living thing stinks of unpaid rent.