I am glued to the interior
of my thoughts.
A shredded
ballerina figurine
dipped in gold.
Trees, water, sky.
Autumn. Spring.
Autumn. Outside,
reality is thinning.
Paper coaster.
Tree sap in a dead limb.
Walking down the street.
Walking
through time.
A tunnel.
The senses dulled
to anything
but fear.
All words
sound like ‘Run.’
Steps
over water, along the dock.
Darkness
under. Viscous,
tar-like.
An eyelid, blinking.
I can blot mountains
with my hand,
but not
this sunset. This
scream
igniting the sky.
The trees split
open their heads
to contain the twilight.
A penitent
wind blows in
an ache for snow.
The heat
sinks.
A rock in a pond.
A shimmer
of tears.
I walk the labyrinth
into the green
of the forest. Blue
shards of sky
hit the ground at my feet.
Gold filigree
patches
paper wounds.
There’s
no beast here.
Only the torn
consciousness
suturing itself
into being.
