I wish for my tongue to taste of aspen
A rooted grip to ground me
When words fall out my mouth
theyre transported into lurching shapes
like browning leaves
The yellowing of my sentences is
hard cased by intention.
Silent to the dieback of heartbreak
Resilience in a colony of mutual aid
Each syllable in place, slotted by the
(skip) just in front . goodbye from behind and welcome(go back)
Still each time I try to preserve some
resolve in that voice,
gaps between words become canyons,
dry and barren without the aspens .
I cant quite make the jump