punk rock on the radio
road blurring w/ memory
the drive becomes a detour
to another life, the one
where you & I belong
and nothing stands
in our way—

as if there are only 
two dimensions
one path for each
                        

with words from Wisława Szymborska

Discontent stirs something in my chest
like a small animal rustling in the dead
leaves of autumn; soon there will be no
place to hide, as a wintry zephyr scatters
my white-spangled camouflage. What
once I thought a refuge is now a barren
absurdity—I long to be entangled in the
absent underbrush again, gilded with
summer sunlight, akin to creativity
embodied, some happiness more 
pronounced. But this would not be 
called the past if it were some place
to which we could return.
                        

Sometimes a cup of chamomile
lends as much warmth as icy
relief for unhealed wounds,
textured w/ time but no more
guarded from pain than when
the first blow struck—

and while part of me longs
for renewal, another is repulsed
by the idea of becoming that matte
canvas once again, bereft
of raw skin slick w/ blood.

Old words, remembered meetings
still sting like salt—
a too-familiar face rinses the rip
clean sometimes

but not like certain strangers
who take you as you are,
speaking weight off your chest
until you surpass the feather
pillow at your back in lightness,
& everyone folds open 
as if offering a gift.