deconstruction.

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