photo_camera by Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash
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.