The summer feels like winter now that my bones no longer trust the flesh that hangs like silver moss from ancient cedar branches deep in some snowy forest. I am not reflecting old but my core is hollow for the cold has crystallized all flow. I consider moving to some ancient city where heat mummifies thought; where all poetry is blind to what is real. But the edges of the knives that pin me here are blunted & can no long cut deep enough to free my words.

the sky was there - distorted at the edges but there clear crystal blue his wings burned his mind locked he battled the Plexiglas sky over and again his head bumped hoping for an improbable escape ~~~ I was afraid his death would stain my hands like black pitch I saw his obsession lying to his wings each invisible beat bringing him closer his truth needed to be told the sky needed to lie it was up to me to eclipse the sun transform his reality to a phosphorescent bullet shooting out into a summer day