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.