I can see the steam rising from the ground,

even though there is none.

No ground, and certainly no steam.

Certainly not.

I am starting to pay more attention to to the cracks and the crevices,

and the tectonic plates,

and to the proclamations and lamentations, as well.

Whatever is written on the sidewalk, in the stars.

now I am starting to think of skeletons, and now that’s all I will think of from here on out.

That, and how the cats eyes catch the sunlight that peeks just past the curtains,

Our curtains.

Your fountain.

You’ll catch that same streak of light, like a ball of yarn,

and I’ll help you

catch it

bury it

maintain it

Wash your face and hands with it,

even though its strictly decorative and belongs with the other decorations,

and isn’t to be used for your hands or face,

Tell me if anything strikes you as odd about it.

About it not being in the attic with the rest of the holidays.

…about that.

Bury it amongst the snakes, and the scorpions( which by the way, I am seeing less and less of)

still my blood is cold

and the light escapes me,

escapes us entirely ,

That same streak of light,

The best we can do is wet footprints on a hot afternoon,

The best we can do, is pay more attention to the cracks and crevices,,

and the commas;

Pay more mind to the seam on which we rest,

to the breaking plates, which we’ll watch from a distance.