would be a very secret cage.
Gutters lined with moss and mulch.
Perfect, diplomatic thighs
denied this day and age of pain.
Regret was such a global warming.
Had to do with simple touches
of pretending chasms didn’t own the sky.
You had legs to live me down.
I had courage lint at times.
The almost dandruff of a tear
was sprinkled just like echoes
from a knocking door that
no one ever sought to answer,
even in a blinding storm.
I would do the stoic crawl,
assuming arms, so long as
they were stubborn, yes,
could carry disappointments resting
on the shores of icy ponds.
Looking on with envy’s fevered
rushing blushing, stand
behind the backs of dogs for
photos that would go in books.
Smile waxing. My career.
Apathy was not intended.
But you couldn’t, wouldn’t tar
an avenue that taught me how and
why to split pistachios of crisis time
that floated just like Styrofoam
among the knuckled tides of fear.
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