Change looms at elbows and slithers around ankles
waiting for a calm in the air before it rankles
and destroys a peace barely even met.
Mouth dry. Strands of hair, tangled in knuckles, blow wet.
Misty air weeps with me. Belly clutching. Belly rumbling
terror at tomorrow. A wail on the wind. Tumbling
speckles— Blind, angry sky and foreign thump-thumps.
Half moons on palms and red white pumps
blossoms of blood at the corners of my eyes and
dark monsters lurking on the rise and
felt fingers dragging over knees and
deep fear of nothing but the leaves
creeping at the windows,
tickling at the green Dos
Equis bottle that shivers
as my heart delivers
little fears,
hot tears.
Tight gears:
Spiked spears.
