Singing to keep from screaming,
making sounds that pound against
those inner walls that work like cages of
masonry to keep the butterflies at bay,
submerging them in killing jars
with fists that curl into bullets
resembling the starsigns of tears;
that's how I keep yesterday at bay.

Rivers in motion, fixing fluidic songs in sing-a-longs
that go on and on
and seem learn nothing from the breaking sound
of beetles
that comes from the sensation of being walked on;
that is the temperature
of time
paramount in the fixtures feeding my dreams.

Standing tall with pockets filled
with only time and an assortment of candied
pulses, I still know what I've wanted
and what has been dispossessed by the
grindstone working wheat into something
that fades
as it falls through the cracks in my heart.

And yet I keep on attempting to love,
hoping to one day get it right