forgotten how to look at the sky
to separate the clouds
and greet birds as they pass by.
in a stack of hay
its edges shaper than a needle’s
forgotten and thrown away.
up on dreaming
and on the restful sleep that it allows
for if they still persist
I don’t think I’d want to come back around.
I’m a kite
without a string
or a string without its kite
the whole of me still incomplete
maybe that is why I write.