make like the morning

make like the morning
and fly to the west,
till your fine wide wings
detect their own nest

Wash Day

That blanket that spins in the drum
bears secrets that only my lips
are longing for.  As the washer hums
and grunts, the lavender strips
of cloth underneath my fingers sigh
when the brush strikes them with fury.
He chose to sidestep these empty eyes.
Now I stand, blanketed in worry.

———–

edited after initial posting

Left Behind

Flowing through the
thickest water to get
back home.
stone by stone
head by head
The conductor says
that
I’ve been left behind.
At least I saw her smile.

Do you know what the
slap of stale breath
against cotton at 4:18
in the morning sounds
like?

12 hours of parceled sighs
packed and planned in
a head
so full of nothing that
it would make you scream
to the sky for the offense
of it all.

Sleep was never the answer.