Live Like Plastic
Michelle Greenblatt
wild with starlight
(mangled, unfolding)
fear cracks open like december,
a million trees under diverging sky
overhead and below the noise quietly retracts
survival is buried deeply inside
the thin line connecting ocean to horizon
whatever crimes I have committed,
whatever larcenies, trespasses,
now holding you is trying to catch the wind with a butterfly net.
the hours/days churn in the cement mixer of
time, you subside,
slip out of view, leave no fingerprints
only a note pinned on my body to teach me
a lesson. I wake
and read it:
Michelle,
this is how you live when nothing has
a container, when you live like liquid and do everything
to hide it.
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