nesting

 

they plow the road here until late
the rushed scrape scattering lights across the ceiling
I cannot see the snow from bed, but
hear the stealthy wings touch the windows
thoughtfully

I pick scraps of dreams off the deadfall in my memory

the heat creeps out of my ribcage, but in the dark it is
the low drone of fields, the wave of sticky summer with no oak stretched up
to break the day

and my feet move too slowly in the heavy air
we smell not overripe, but tired
slightly yellow
and grass is only green here for April, May,
June

we swim for the other side

waking to the rattle of the garbage truck
the sky that never lightens past grey

and I cannot find the jungle