Spring: Leaving
Is, this the end?
Our promises: pregnant,
broken and bent. And
I’d wager this season’s pay
you’ll sell me out
when I’ve said, “My dear,
your elbows keep
shoveling my ribs.”
Quiet, the night has become
something we’ll loathe. Centered
on answers that keep me falling home.
Places I’ve let cut my guts, will
hold fast to my wrists and
tether me to the decks.
Seasons, they come and
they go. Peering through
chests made of stone,
I’ll soon learn to breathe slow.
