I Choose the Seasons

The morning
unseduced by alcohol and bar lighting. Yelling
in a bubble and hoping to shatter
front
cold surfaces
like freeways and skyscrapers

twisting grip, lull
twisting grip, lull
                                still
difficult to be distracted

irrelevance

nothing
sooth else writing, Thoms lungs

schrill two knobs
not loud enough
sober

but still shaking, holding
on off center

hiijacked by circumstance
convincing myself
it's justified

Nunca, soon