Barefoot

There are still bare branches outside the window;

browned, winter-kissed bramble shivers

lifelessly in the spring breeze,

smelling of rain and thunder.

The air rumors of life, but I’ve

yet to see it beneath these grey skies.

 

I don’t know how one goes about

starting these adventures.

Are my bare feet enough?

 

Sometimes, I still try to talk to the birds.

When we share the grass mattress I feel close enough,

so I chirp like a child that doesn’t know better.

A child can never know that they won’t talk back.

 

This morning the birds flew back into the grey skies.

I was left bare-footed beneath bare branches

that let the rain flood me and the browned bramble.

Fears Grow with Me

As a boy I wore socks beneath my sheets
and at once admonished myself for such
weakness. I dreamed that eight legs and teeth
would meet my feet there where I couldn’t see.
My blood was my own; my body hemmed in
by fabric, protective, though I blushed at
any confession of the fact in the sun.
In the thin veil of night my enemies
seemed more real, though now, in their graves,
they’re cold. New enemies stand before me
not restricted to the moon’s hours, rather,
now I am never alone. No socks beneath
sheets, nor a tight-wrapped neck offers safety:
an empty, vacant spirit haunts me;
a vacuum devoid of personhood.
How many more times will the autumn leaves
crumble beneath my feet with this ghost
as my only companion? The air
is frozen where she should be standing –
cold, stagnant and whining in my ear.
The pitch grows so great that I fear I’ll go
deaf, and won’t hear her voice when she arrives.