A phrase, lost in thought

A phrase, lost in thought 

For Char Poe and others close to a thing that they understand but cannot know

Arrows, as it were, just one- 

Etching photographs of guns, without shells because- 

Violent shades of numbers and I draw them in with interrupted lines- 

The hours bought from other time-

It comes and settles, and then combusts.

Dove, I begged once before and the shelter was not-

Twigs of bone and flowering fear, a nest-

Colored pencils, laid to rest, I cannot accept- 

My mother, victim and perpetrator, a pale prophecy, she- 

I braid my tears into my autumn hair.

Machete, cast for blank spaces- 

I press my thumb against the wall, then- 

Teacher wants zodiac consistency but- 

Tides of moon walking and the arc of sun- 

I cannot ask for a thing for which I have no letters.

Tibetan mandalas, made of sand they- 

My fingers insect’s footprints, the ink- 

Cooling pearls of sweat, I am grasping at- 

Oh, but the moss and wood claws at my brain and-

There isn’t a thing in sight that I can see.

Lust for licking wounds and the taste hardly lingers.

Ask me about my windows.