Coming up for air against the guilt of days. Un-tuned strings wrenching me into a deeper space. Slowing hands and faster days, little by little. Wincing for the privilege of shame in a heartbeat noon. Happiness as another imposter in a lifetime of masks. Sabotage as an exit strategy. And holly wreaths shoved into a square-shaped life. Scarcely long enough to be convincing. Maybe the central valley snow will finally come, and bury us up to our fettered ankles.

3:14 p.m. - 2021-12-24