the windows do reveal some emptiness
that left bruises on our thighs and
calves dry as the June of my childhood
that I barely remember, now that I want
to sleep a bit more, eat all I can afford
until the news says “no,” and morning
cuts cheaply made blankets that never
kept us warm when we noticeably shook
and spoke some kind of dialect imitated
by the loudest midnight storm in a year.
to breathe is an art, especially while
singing among those who talk more about
the dress you wore inside the church, and
if it was proper, and if there was a good
enough reason for you to stand in the light
when the past few times were spent back and
forth in bleak ditches and blunt ambiguity.
of course, people say what they will, what they
want, and what they wish they could do
without any sort of consequence.
profess and open your mouth more often, and let me
know when perfection waters every lawn in our neighborhood
to where drinking from the tap becomes mildly cool.
it would be nice for all of us to stop looking
over our shoulders perhaps for one day, or an hour.
to breathe can be oh so daunting.