Tired

Light is lobbed to the leaves and they cradle it 

In the evening they throw it back to the sun 

whose tendrils collect it 

then go home 

I think peace looks like:  

driving on the highway from College Park  

listening to “White Ferrari” 

by Frank Ocean 

Monday 

Rejection 

Run late 

Elections 

It’s a Friday 

Let's lie down 

We’ll figure