any other

listen,
colors up the back of sheep-
we all know who's the belle of the ball
i was thinking of you in england
i was barely there at all
staring out the window at hours of green
a pastoral haze of physical ache
for an absent limb.

phantom.
willed forgetting.
back in america and i find myself elsewhere, still
in some past.  some depth.  some nowhere.

the way we speak to each other
and are spoken to
i started listening
and all my words changed
an excess of darkness before some fall back
and i meant to write to you months ago.

sometimes it's hard to contain these screams
in little boxes
the windows are open
and everyone hears

they used to sit together and coo
like birds-

there is no natural state
this is all just the firing of synapses
subconscious lunges at those magic hormones
that tell us we are happy
chase that connection
call it out
by any other name

(the slight sagging around the earlobes.
before you can detect it in the voice, there's the sagging near the ears) That was all just necessary. Some release. Some getting out. Fall and the general, consistent desire to weep. Some nature. Some nurture. Some true thing in the mud.

That was all just necessary.
Some release.
Some getting out.

Fall and the general, consistent desire to weep.
We hear so little & understand even less.
Some nature. Some nurture.
Some true thing in the mud.