How do we tell them? How do we tell the trees,

the chamomile, the seas.  How do we tell them

 

the truth of our sins, the screams and the wall?

How do I tell the mourning doves again

 

tell them what we’ve done? We’ll kill ourselves

before the sun implodes and presses

 

his citrus cheek to mine, sweat gluing us.

They dropped the window in a poets lap

 

pressed their polar elbows into the glass

until the blood stains their cuticles deep

 

so deep it cannot be scrubbed away

The tomatoes are swelling in my garden

 

green and bursting at their tight seams.

Dirt in my nails disguises the gnawing,

 

the world spins far too fast it seems.

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