I don’t go outside very much as of lately
the wind is harsh
and it’s far too quiet.
details of rubber
and newly grown puddles.
Before all this
the grass was home.
Feel the water soak through your dense, dirty jeans.
feel it grow dark
spread through your thighs.
Hands closely crawling.
“I swear that was the same ant we saw yesterday”
If you would just look up
you’d see there was more over there.
I live in a square
with a monkey in the corner
and Tinkerbell on her bed.
Even now a movie plays in the background
I’ll never recall the details.
I write quick. Getting too old. too busy.
too scared to dream. My brain wakes up without me now.
When I was 9 I wrote in my journal
about what to tell my family if I died.
They found it last weekend, going through the closet.
I was scared then too.
I never noticed the light off the courthouse before.
See the traffic moving down the freeway
“where are you going?”
sounds like you
that one night
we started listening.
Or the hill
with the wolves patiently waiting at the bottom.
declarations of bold things,
belief in the weeds.
“Trespassing? The wolves will get us before anyone else will.”
I bet we could hide in that shed.
like my posture,
like the grass.