Is it the petals everywhere?
Because the air smells like the skin
of every person I tasted this year?
Is it the weight of the air at dusk?
I drive to the grocery store every day
to buy fruit. I want to cut into something.
I brandish my pocket knife at nobody
and eat snow peas like candy.
April fifteenth, and there are bruises above the trees. Still, it’s not the sky’s fault that the sunlight slipped away all of a sudden. It’s nobody’s fault.
I keep a list of all the people I’ve ever loved. Which one smeared my body with clay? Even with my eyes closed, I can tell I have fingerprints all over my stomach.