The
heat of noon, of three, of four.
The
heat of smoke, of coal.
Of
anxiety.
Of
yesterdays I can't forget about,
tomorrows
for which the fear is gestating.
Shut-in
rooms, blinds, bruised shin bones.
Fruit plunged
into water. Sound
lengthened
into wasteland.
Am I
halfway there yet?
This
isn't poetry.
It's
life, tiny specks of it,
in an
attempt to make what I am living
feel
like life.
I read
something earlier today
that
said life is made up of the small things,
the
small moments in between the "life-
defining
moments".
I am
trying
to
start
believing
that.
