Michelle Paulsen
weekends of walking into the you grow tired a strange sudden
in storms

you grow tired
of the sadness
of liquid on
glass, and pray for
summer. it comes,
and you wrinkle
unrecognizable, curling up
foetal, like a severed
leaf. there is no
nourishment, no
newness for you
now. the Fall
is soothing, morphine
over your veins. and winter is
welcome, numb and
staring at a naked
up on his there is something
then there was the it may be a
snowflakes are fireflies for driving in the there is a