The contents of my head lies
in a fruity pulp by the curbside.
It seeps through nooks and fractures,
into empty depths bound by concrete.
I watch from above,
Breathing slowly so that arching plumes of air
might stifle the sad little words
that hang so dismally around.
They are like flies-
Humming bulbs that hover above the mess...
My mess-
of loss and
clumsiness.
