I have left enough,
by now, in the dirt,
under the roots of trees, behind the shed.
I have pulled myself to a full stop.
Now it’s the second guess, the cool spring
splashing on your lips up your nose.
Tied to the post.
You told me to keep pushing when the line of life was getting
thin, humming like a guitar string, metal pulled tight. You plucked me and the
Trees slid silent up and out, roots gaping.
When my father measured me against his ruler, I was mushrooms
overnight, breathing spores. Infected by the air in old
The snow was already dirty like this when it fell, I didn’t
spread the mud. Thick on the tongue.
I hear you coming from a death sleep, seconds swollen, caught
quick and now the creaking stair.
You put your mouth on cool metal to feel it out.