The weeping Southern skies can’t promise to choke me humidly.
The rising stars refrain from performing to crickets and frogs.
Abandoned is the sinkhole of basal intent to protect!
I lay unfamiliar in a bunk bed I don’t own; reeling
I am packed tight in the blankets like my luggage.
The air (thank you Kay) is different here; archived scents
I watch walls blooming colors warm with sunset, not Volunteers
My breath keeps coming but I’m still holding it,
The weeping angels of Southern skies wave; I love them
I blow a “kiss my ass” back at those who stole illicitly from me
But that’s barely a toot of air forgotten after a pizza bird
The process will digest as slowly as Mayfield milk gravy.
Mare Martell 
