how little
things are
thought on

from september

day's fervid breath
summons sweat
& beads left little
hairs tacky upon
my hot neck like
6 year-old post-
finger-food lunch
fingers vicegrip
in this so-called
adult hand beside
a busy street back
to a highway hotel
on a last gasp (read:
dying fever breath) of
summer september day

this secret
sometimes
setback is
i never plan
a poem

this cold
contraction
of autumn days

our diminish
anxiety begets
a sort of scrap
& scramble

number supplies
name demons

we hoard & hide
a winterworth of
what may warm us

heated arguments
hot tears & a forge
full of all our irons
left unstruck

turn tossed
& insomnia's
attenuate fingers
tangle intent
in my intestines

i unwind three
quilts to half-
covered one
leg free finds
& fixates on

each chill still
curling around
these confused
corners of a
chaos bed