sensibilities, left on the mountaintop. i am
bereft of joys and colored books, pages torn
piled to form
soft mountains of childhood
sunflowers grown to fit our eyes. let's eat
their seeds, bake them in our gas-filled ovens
during the summer months. the vibrant greys
filling my mouth and nose, the bleeding
purples and their coiling smokes.
it is not clear to me; you are not toxic, you are not green.
illegitimate fears sweep me back up the chimney,
i do not fit.
i am meant for soulful arms, creased like yours
autumn eyes with sharp corners. i am
lost for words, left with fingertips. i am sinking,
you are smooth.
