One Foot in the Past and One Foot on the Page

I.
Another summer spent bruising like fruit.
You got on a plane and cried as the sun set
over America, picking at your wound:
the scab is a reminder to forget

the web of smells of soap and weed and skin -
go tell your brain that we are not a moon
and he’s no planet to be orbiting.
Go write another manifesto in your room.


II.
Mid-winter air feels thin, you stand and watch
the water churn and still, the levels rise
tnd drop, fresh water meets the brackish ice.
Look up, find Venus blinking in the sky -

you hear gates open, bridges split and lift -
she’s on the precipice, about to shift.