the e-dict

The sky this morning

is the same color as my french lace curtains

or the ashes of bones

No mountains to speak of

No eyelet of clouds

It is under skies like this

that I want to forget myself

dissolve into the they say there could be snow on Tuesday air

and put my broken heart to bed

But I make the coffee

an imperfect pot

and stir in a hopeful amount of cream

It’s only October and still, below the treeline,

winter is coming

and I can’t sleep past 3am for all the sounds

of slow-dying

the sky is falling the sky is falling

or maybe I am finally rising