the world has mute edges
swimming in the blue sky
in the white sunlight of
january
it’s my soul that’s breaking
not my heart
the world climbs into
the trunk of an 89 pontiac and
heads for the freeway
the cross-stitched haze
of gray tree limbs and
evergreens whisper about
dry trails and the pound of bare feet
the broken breath of the sky
reminds the grass of summertime
what I’d give to peel away
looking on with no
fear shame or past
turning to the sun
knowing it’s the same
i know some things about
poetry and
fir trees and
maybe a little more
maybe that’s why
i know it never started I
know I never was and
i know it keeps on moving.
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