Untitled IX

I have been set upon the world after witnessing the dawn

In true February fashion the cold is in the wind and not the sun

I turn my face into it like all the flowers, blooming wild in the yard

And I turn my face into the rain when, inevitable, it returns

Hungry to feel that living is worth the tears, the aching bones

It is these small fragments that prove it, over and over again

As such I make promises, little oaths

Until this blanket is made

Until my twenty-fifth birthday

Until the fiddlers and night harmonies

Until the drawn hearts wash off my windshield

Until the coffeeshops close

Until the nukes blast my home to rubble

Until the end of this book

Until we’re tired of singing

Until you die, so you don’t have to carry this

The weary burden of my absence