Sad to the Branch

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

from me.)

 

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.

 

A branch

still broken—held

sad to the bones of our last breath.

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