Cardinal feather and sage bundle smoking in the sill, ritual to find any answer.
I feel the same, not changing as fast as Midwestern skies: white, bleak, and then gray haze.

They wonder why so many teens are choosing to medicate and blink out instead of droning through the crossroads of Nowhere and Dirt Road, but is it really so difficult to empathize?
They say if someone leaves it’s best to know why, and I know why you left so what am I supposed to do with the drugs? How am I supposed to leave Death since witnessing her bare? How many more are done with waking to aching sunshine, feeling half of who you are or can be, unable to wash out demands from our throats, shape incantation into action?

Down to shores of Ana Island like some wishful fools off to find the Fountain of Youth
(11 Magnolia Ave.), feel flood tides crash against crumbling seawalls again and again, crash and crash again. Not getting any better at resistance.

I see them, trying to find the soft grip of moon waning, wanting to spool threads of stars around it, and their bluing fingers. Their disarticulated bones without air to spiral through lungs, expel. From the fire, can’t make clay; from heartstrings, we find only witnesses with the rough touch of something faint that won’t stay in the catastrophe of the past.

a weekday outside the Magic Beach Motel: stars keep shooting off behind
Eric’s head; pink yellow white, pink yellow tings with tequila
chain-smoke while he tells us about future plans (memorials now)
                         another sunset down the gutter, how every Floridian’s
night begins, antique muffled voices all born unlucky
with skin (rub salt over the shoulders, repeat daily…)
I imagine littering my feathers behind, the world taking
a long drag
sigh heaving, ocean crash somewhere nearby

A long drag, crash and crash again as I bring shears, tear into memories of chipping seafoam faces: all of the days thinking of those bluing eyes, thinking of those waves cross-country, thinking of giving you up or joining you, no longer caring about direction or light. In dreamscapes, translucent hands try breaking every expectation the sun will rise again tomorrow, O, so tired of circling the same track of cosmos, every day…

another Thursday, after the psychic reader on Bernard Street
performs her fifth reading flipping Ace of Pentacles
then she walks into the Atlantic, pod of sea weed washing
up in her place
more memorials. Mouths stay close but closed off
like stretched badlands along arid shores,
eyes doing more swimming,
learning to see with salt clumped to eyelashes.

There’s nothing heavier than weight of mystery: even Sun hardly glows through haze they try to convince us is sky, but we know the difference. We just stopped caring when we begin to turn to Calla Lillies, pinking toes to grab, trick us into falling (out of necessity)—

Should I have gone long ago?

Cardinal feather and sage bundle smoking in the sill.


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