I’m tending a garden
fed from the blood
still in your veins.
How many miles and hours will it take
for this silence to beget rage
There is an unnatural lightness about the day,
but it is an omen.
Flying too close to the sun,
as is known – a dire warmth to feel
I am still sweating out apologies from my palms,
rubbing them into frantic cascading diatribes
against myself to myself for myself