I have not been able to write for weeks.  It's shameful, a shame.

However.



Bird call,
the family's open mouths, broken seams.
Sister,
warm in our slow speeches
and our sun's burning.
Ca caw,
they see the same professionals,
a youth's glare a fading confession.
Sister,
we confess too violently our sins.
Always the same givings,
advice crawls up our building
to bodies-
the lack of connection.
A constant drone on the phone line.
Who gave us this sadness?
A reason for chills in late July,
creating the same weather-scape in cities apart.
Purr,
a biting wit,
the trees stare back,
the grass looks always the same.
Trends fall over our shoulders,
draperies of inabilities
(do not fit in).
Who gave us our sadness,
when only the green earth gives,
what other people have taken away.