Seared by the combustion of daffodils paragliding on rusty ceilings

close to my body.

I, a submerging stick, sunburning the roof raiding down the alley

of a skinny periphery

across the bountiful heart-wrenching natural traits

that bookmark the griefs of the damsels

that once wander thereabouts,

 

till I reduce to nature’s optimal. Becoming a homesick means throbbing

your worries into a swallowing substance,

more like approving desiccant into your body sinew—to cement,

palpable to dying the hard way,

 

how I manage to sieve each solid into a cluster,

leaving portions for the widows mourning an oak tree.

If it is for men, lamps of unmemorable frames deadens in the dark room.

For the boys with desiring hearts,

resorts to the norms of dadenhudd—

they, stonecraft, macertes. For the boys practicing how to burn

with a cauldron plastered on their throat,

each hotness, a brute machining where the saints will later live.

 

The gallops, drowning again &

the fighters, a fi(s)tless bone. Our mothers, detached from their sons.

Jigsawing;

our heart tears into chafing remains—a chaotic shame

like the lost friends escorting the sun, perceiving

the journey is a dryline

till night catches, resting their palms on the moon’s elbow.

 

Nature knows the turnaround—stories fast-gliding on a crust.

 

How do I pick me from shards, at a tablespoon when all is

left is to howl,

howl, a teary movie, surrounding me. The climax, foreshadowing

my procumbent,

 

how nature knows not the weight in this poem,

how nature knows not I’m a lonely tree.