at five in the morning
after all the fives
in all the mornings
I've seen come and go,
and birdsong
in my ribcage,
I notice too,
unsure intentions
knotted with knuckles as fists
take up their resting positions,
tangling with the threads of these
wordswordswordswordswords
(not yet spoken)
but they are clattering
behind my teeth,
they are faltering
syllables I fall into, or falling
out of tune with me.
Could I ever really sing?
Do you laugh when I dance
because you mean it?
Because days are falling off the calendar
and I am very, very tired.
out of time,
and I am dropping plates
(I do not expect this to be understood but
(I do not expect this to be understood but
you can rest assured I have a broomstick).