Memoirs of a Life Unlived

How do you get to see a way through this? Clumsily rub these flints over kindling, treasure precious embers, let flames make sense where dumb brains fail. Force crystals into cruder shapes to refer to, return to, relate to. Get familiar with green glass. Embrace the wet air, lack of grip, soft slow warm slip back to it. Scribble tirelessly, strokes fluttering out the maze. Try to talk as if they have the time, listen like they mean it just for you. Sweep into a dustpan all there is between here and where it was. Ask again, ask over again: How do you get to see a way through this?

Frost roosts on my gable and fears nothing. The plump pigeon ruffling its feathers considers me, as a plane floats golden over our heads. It knows better and  is not fooled: Cold wakes first,  thinks faster, clings harder, claims all. Two panes of glass, piped gas and a pen separate me from the pigeon's living.

We all look like death. First date breaks through skin, cracking up and coughing, checking everything till checking's all there is. We only see what's visible and honeyed souls reside in pavement cracks. By all means weep, create a scene, but that, red eyes, is that.