flowers do kneel, apt to reveal.

we love how the whites of
a suddenly swollen moon
crack beneath our shoes
as our laces become untied
with each shriveled conclusion
of another faulty argument.

what good does speaking
provide when raindrops
hit the old front porch
and flattened leaves bleed
to tell you as much?

the clouds are stubborn
like most bad memories
that won’t dissolve into
cups of lukewarm water.

break the bread, make our bed.

let’s repeat everything we
never learned to say
because homework wasn’t
cool to us in 2006.

I am the fuzz peeled away
when it’s time to eat at
the sour misconceptions known
to tie us down and placate
those who were never happy.

teach me to sit and weave
baskets while the line outside
spirals and cuts across curbs
that broke the skin left
behind by thrashing defiance
abandoned in a local flood.

all has been said, some misled.

Cat No. 119 of the 500 Cats Project