Brick buildings create shade
over fractured foundations,
where hard headed weeds
still grow through the cracks,
in spite of their father’s advice
to give up the fight.
She pulls them in the summer
wearing volleyball knee pads,
never witnessing the disappointment
of the root system.
Holes in the ceiling create pools
of light, and they are swam to,
through the dirt compressed
solidly under the concrete.
They give up everything to get there.
Stretching themselves to their thinnest,
and not caring how it ends.
When her job is done she drinks water
where the sun falls from the sky, in a way
that doesn’t burn, but only breathes.
Teleporting Typewriter 