let the mission move
with ankles and annoyances.
silence sits well
especially on loud long Labor Day weekends
which come every year
with the ants and the aunts
and the walruses
and the sisters
and the nagging End days of sad summer.
two more weeks
turns into okay,
and okay jesus fucking christ (!)
turns into another too weeks,
and then the cold all-of-a-sudden wrists
remind you that you are just an All Hallow's Eve costume,
and another year older.
this may be the green dance,
but the arrowheads are aimed at hearts,
which, by the way,
only beat for the dead days
that lost count of our ideas
by themselves
still feel twelve,
or sixteen,
or thirty one,
or soon.
I wish I wore
old boots electric
by gone by being fine and gone;
this is the semicolon in lonesome life,
left with shortcuts and sleep,
caught up by words and vomit,
mixed up by knife rides
and dangerous love,
catapulted to sterling,
saved by something called ante up.