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this is the sound
of the snap
lost grip
of your other hand
this is the way it feels
when you are struck from behind
in a wide open field of more pleasant possibilities
this is what it tastes like
when you accept defeat
and stand smoldering
on tarmac with a paintbrush
and a gun

and butterflies
smell like hair
when they flutter exhausted by
and caterpillar viscera feels cool spring green
between your toes
when you are finally too tired to watch
for the fragile
too tired
to tape up the cracks
too tired to patch all the
branch scratches

this is where you knot your wild hair
and chisel the marble
in all the wrong places
until finally it cracks
deliciously

In half.

2:55 p.m. - 2005-06-20
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