CLOUDBELLIES

all that stops a queue of sorrow is

a frayed 

             edge, a hand

weak against the broken 

door, 

        outside, one knock sighs, then falls away.

 

I want to text you HAPPY NEW YEAR!

but it’s a Tuesday in may

 

and with my head sick between my knees

I will myself 

beyond the broken 

door

  coming to you, happy

 

like a pea 

 from its skin: undone,

 

full and green