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

walking into the
water, the cotton
clings, a part of you
swirls, mutates- you
regain the weight of
childhood, buoyant but
ignorant...of anything, something
dark deep
only your hair is
truthful, that
long blond halo cannot
breathe, and now
heavy and
jealous, it wraps
you up, pulls
you down; a cocoon, you
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