Warnings

Patterns of you. Patterns traced all Pompeii like you used to be there, standing just like that.

Desire is a bag of oranges on the elevator floor.

I’ll rest when this is done. When the right words have put this moment in their mouth, something to taste when the thinner air rushes in, the blind doing of nothings and day-to-day detergent wash.

The people in the field searching for hands and heads and other lost moments.

We’ve reached the end of the world and wonder now where all the warnings went. This is where 'to' and 'from' fall into one another. And all that's left are tattooed Hiroshima shadows.

I stand under the eaves, waiting for the rain to finish its rant.