Doing nothing, for no
obvious reason, engaging
the travails of self-watch, I do
not want to confront the propensity
of withdrawl.
The elder pain blooms, again
like Ipomea. Will not stand the
bright sun’s gaze, I will sail?
out between the blackened
teeth and stammering
words.
It sucks, the female snake.
The phloem, the flora. A tree kills
its own birds. Cannot ambulate
tender promises. A stricture
chokes the poem. Double-
edged truth lifts the weight.
Moon knows the art of giving.
Sends the blood tears.
