043009

Hielo, beware when the road is just
pointing, to a broken and lazing
example, when nothing you've chosen
will fit you, and the tantrum
on the hard bathroom floor.

'Cause you're hiding
where the sun-trees remind me of
childhood, with the three months
we lived without rain
and a browning, of skin turning something quite
golden, white eyebrows and pigtails
alike.

But it's gone now
with the sinking of skin on my
forehead, to the pillow and forever
sleeping, and days sliding past without
grace. But a reason
to stare at the stones in your
eyelids, and wonder what plays in your ears.

'Cause it's boring
this pointing and tired
commuting, while the bus shakes a violent
unreason, can't tell you how much I miss
raining, while my life here won't let me
complete.