THE SKYLIGHTS TELL US WHY (JULY 3)

 
Inching at it, whatever
it might be.
Dot line identifying
trouble spots
all over your body,
the room
a damp landmine
of outfits.
Once I wore a pink silk shirt,
once I walked the streets
in flower cloth
and knew I did not want
to be there.
I weed whack until
the ferns fly,
the moss rips,
the dirt spews, 
and then there’s just
an empty crack
that looks
mistaken.