to what

you choke on the pollen roaring out her eyes
some men have spent seasons in hell,
i could only witness one night.

we refuse to sketch the coming
night as the coffin lid closing on us.

metaphors are everywhere, in the
sentence crawling next to you,
the ducks bruising the afternoon
a dark brown stain moving south
a separate home with separate lives
these bundled feathers play.

the salt in the lungs corrode the words to powdered diction.
but your words are plastic;
you speak in tongues graced by petals of light.

this tree was planted
in my grandfathers eyes.
his hat is floating in a caravan of clouds
rolling through, dispersing fragments of dreams
and echoes that you knew you heard but can never see
like a shadows breath, it doesnt weigh as
much as your empty hands. now you want to uproot
my deeper blood.

i have a growing suspicion
i might be a tree.