To Be Struck Alive by Different Weather
Dawn spills out of
slate sky. But It's a dawn of moldy words, old
fingers: colors of knives and concrete.
My skin waits
for an orangejuice sun, to be struck alive by
different weather.
Still the room drowns. He said, Baby you'd better
choose now.
Beating, beating. Under the mountain of grey
sheets, no answer.
Verbs of dust
hurt my eye. But I don't see how to
go with him.
Or how to stay in these walls I can't live in
where everything
falls with the frostbrown apples, where an
