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Breathing
August 15, 2022
Pale light breathes
in stammers and gasps.
Before, there was rain.
Bullets of molten mercury,
armies of sky-stung spears
hurled to the rhythm of open eyes.
Now, all that remains
is mesh stitched with dull diamonds
and an uncertain sunrise
that wants to dream
but cannot remember how.
The shore hopes,
and the waves whisper and wait,
and when you read these words
you will ask,
what is the point of this?
And I will say,
there is no point,
only a poem,
and a girl who cannot sleep,
and the frail paleness of light
that is breathing still.
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