Antlers
clean yourself up and come back to bed.
walk proudly. and step sideways,
around the darkest black night shadows.
if you had one.
a coping mechanism. twigs tied together
with a rough brown string. internal.
moniker. antlers, sharpened to points.
grit underfoot. this is not fun anymore.
this is not me anymore. this just is.
i'm going to see her again. the rain
taps against a window, and smells beautiful.
April 28, 2007