Cumbersome are your hands that twist me backwards; I howl.
A new place to vent these frustrations—binding and pinching spine—
a backyard to put sadness on display, like fireworks, for you.
Either way we’re fucked
or, rather, I am.
For you are much better insulated for this.
So I trim a few words from this poem I’m writing,
to cease mentioning what you already know full well:
your frame has changed, and I no longer fit inside of it.