Maybe it's symbolic that
I fell asleep caressing scissors
to my care-worn face?
After all,
the April rain
hasn't quite made it's way
to the middle of nowhere.
Maybe it'll make it by May.
Then we'll have no flowers
which would be an appropriate
touch to the sweetest
funeral
I will ever see.
It makes sense in my
whirling cosmos
that I keep trapped within
the ocean.
Maybe it's symbolic that
I hit the curb and
bounced straight back
into a conscious effort
to contain my peculiarity.
