and here hanging is a wardrobe of uncertainty…
here, there, you left your face and if only i knew which expression belonged. eyes constantly turning, mouth always churning and one nail is not enough to raise you up and into light. there’s a plastic to your condition that doesn’t agree under the ridges of my fingertips. i can’t collect you any longer. i can’t listen to the fabrication of your syllables mimicking the drop of my lids. i can’t take that drawl of a head nod pretending you understand each turn of a day brings about another how did it go wrong. i’d brush you a thousand different ways if i had the color. i’d hide you a million more with cover. so tell me how to navigate hours when i can’t steer minutes thru storms. drywall prepared with neat holes of precision and the decision of which facade to pull down is a tortuous one.
listen to this poem
© Copyright Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.
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