Untended Evidence

A trickle of sleep from just beside the tear duct

stops halfway down my cheek.

Ribbons in clashing colors, but really:

what colors clash?

Mexican blues and greens, oranges

and reds, have always been friends.

A thought that lifts or batters

depends upon the season.

Winter’s letters cut like freshly sharpened knives.

He says he is going home

but makes a long detour: nothing is sacred, after all.

She confesses to nothing.

After all, with what she’s seen

she knows everything she writes will be used against her

or against those she loves.

None of this evidence requires tending.

It grows wild

wherever you go.