THE FUTURE
the blue moon blossoms between pointed shoulders singing the annual lullaby.
storms and parades.
traditions and tradition.
consumption and excretion.
stretch, so the blades touch.
dawn and dusk curl around spinal knots.
sunrise and set.
summer and winter.
as i rub the dusted mirror with the small of my wrist the time signature raises to a comedic number.
I been waiting.
Mulch eyes open up.
Raised cheekbones, sharpen the flesh.
Twist and shrink, replaying blurry dreams.
I can barely see the tiles beneath the bones.
I been waiting to see her face again.