Sunday, February 26, 2017



Looking like a jungle
is where I am never myself.
I don't want to trip over the sounds
of the wilderness’s bewitching hour.
Life apart from the pain I conceal
from myself is impossible.

Come play in the rain.
This is not that same winter downpour
where December was you. Where the loss
of my dead became custom.

I counted the dead roses
in the garden. I forgot to write
my name on the mailbox.
You couldn't listen to my dreams.
I couldn't question yours.

The scars are still there.
I don’t know how many years I spent
trying to forget, or how many years
I’ll spend trying to remember.

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