The trees hold air sad to the branch.
As I, bated breath, coarse & slow,
hold beat to breast.
Under blind, I walk the foolish air
of nearsightedness, of clouded sight.
I imagine our outline nearby.
Brittle, my hands hold the midcourse—
to front, to mouth, to back of throat—
a gauze for gashes undone.
I’m smashed, tucked in—as marrow
spoils, as bathrooms gather themselves
from many steps distant.
My liver canes itself.
(A lonely organ demanding more
Bars threaten weak ankles.
Calcified bone (my heart)
fears another sprain.
A verse from the blind. An ode to branches,
aimless & content. I was a poem folded,
torn in two by accident.
Specs pulled from a face, wiped on a shirt,
clearing the clouds, returned to
eyes still red.
sad to the bones of our last breath.