So, it is summer, maybe. I don’t know.

The sunlight clumps.

Hours circle big as bombs.

I’m so stuffed up

with demons today

I sting for the green rot

in rain, the moss along bright

dead, dotted stumps

a different soft green

that whines

to be touched.

A hummingbird

pauses above me, sucks

glass. The past is so fat.

Who have I been

outside of holding my breath? Every day

I must live in a terrified map of pins.