Marks

There’s a barely hanging branch
and I’ve been waiting just to see it
finally fall, but it refuses to.
The cold mornings make the town
a bit distorted and any wind that touches
skin is like a fire.

They run a wire from the power line
into the center of her head,
and keep assuring me that everything is fine.
I can’t tell if it is hers or mine
but someone’s heart is beating
like a drum kit
in the background and the song
is getting louder over time.

A mantis bends a blade of grass
and doesn’t ask why everything
is changing. All the other noises
out there ringing loud among
the wild parts escape the clutch
of just the few who hear them.

This volcanic growl of future stepping
forward from the wings
while nothing sings except the silent
outlook swept away by everything at once.
The knives in the table make marks
at the moment of impact,
and to stay intact you have to know
when it is time to let it go.

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