I close this autumn’s
poetry book.
Exit through the pen.
A make shift hope
that everything is normal.

The so-called,
something on my mind.
Are bruises against my soul.
A peeling, like a snakes skin.
Unable to touch the
enormous things.

With no lines set down.
The sea heaves up.
My lungs filled with stems.
Calling out…not
the shadow well.
Only more, precise fears.

By a shrug of the shoulders.
I watch the last rays
of sunset fade.
And wait for those
wildflowers, to sugar
the fields – once again.