interlude.

a child will be born on the day the
world ends, and you and i won’t
have the wherewithal to cry

so much is cut short, and
things go right on beginning,
hope an obstinate usher,
wishing down to the bone

geraniums in november, anger is sincerity in a
funhouse mirror, i am treading the fury,
smiling at strangers while i wait for
an iced coffee, wounds open to wind,
planting flowers, right now?

go right on living, get your
kicks, break my ribs and keep
building, i’m just angry at the
bruises ruining my instagram afternoon,
clipped stems in tap water, petals too
fucking stupid not to crane toward the light.