It was all an economy of thin.
Ginger leaves sway, crisp and bitter, as they give
death wishes to pipe dreams, let them flitter out to the horizon
and forever leave me – broken to dust and ashes,
I, to grind and grit across your body on the tiled floor.
It may marvel the senses, but you having thrown the glassy world apart,
having brushed my dreary mayflies from my windowsill,
you had chased away every firecracker aftertaste until I
crackled in the fire after every taste had thus been made.
Embrittle, starved to snapping by erosion –
Why you swept me off my couch, not under rugs, but out the door…
until the wind ripped the last embryo to desert wilderness,
where only squalls dominate your life.
At least I could finally fly.
