to louise

i sit in a distant chair
knowing my words; sacrificial on plastic altars
blossom black flowers
seeding the wind
back north.

heavy slow chains of loneliness
creep down my back
in charred links and rusted locks
curl at my feet like a passive pet
a loyal cell to bury my miserable bones

then a cup
met the floor and leapt
to pieces.

if i could graft my hands beneath the air
and surgically drift into the correct potential
i might have been able to cradle the cup in safer dilemmas.