a stranger cannot see
you anymore with
muddy desperation
manipulating the air
a small victory is
an empty echo
of your outbursts
as a token reward
the cost is more
than you can hold
feeding small mouths
but there is no
true insurance, just
bottles of wine to carry
you through
a string of days
you have moved on
climbed over
the sagging walls of
that dismal box
you left it there
it is clear now that
truth will never
fit in a container
© 5.18.12 heather brager
