Yellow Sweater

Eggplants are oval,
each one 
a different
squashed circle. 

There are too many perfect things in this world. 
My jaw aches from well said sentences, 
and my back aches from scanning the beach for marbles

Gold left by the roadside 
starts to rot. 

Empty streets 
swell with contemptuous pride.    

I placed my heart in my chest
and told it to wait
till spring comes again. 

Through my gauzy curtains,
curtains decorated with unnecessary butterflies, 
I watch the dark blue become light. 

My tea is bitter this morning, 
without milk or honey.

The night loses its purple as

I need to confront an empty plain. 
Desolation is Cathartic.

On my knees in the raw heath, 
I pray to my own smallness, 

to the tightness in my jaw, 
and my pathetic attempts at flight. 

The darkness gathers thickly around a proud sunflower. 

My beat quickens before it fades. 

I am afraid of being silent, 
so I pour myself into the night. 

My intricacies dissolve

Today the people were wearing hockey hats, 
They were bundled in puffy coats.
Their masks could conceivably have been 
devices for keeping warm. 

I recorded these details in a small blue book: