poetry






Scaffolding collapses under the weight of observation


 
I sit down 
With hours left 
In the afternoon
And intentions

Perhaps a plan
Even

Just get the skeleton
Of this stanza
Bolt it onto the next
And so on…


Then I happen to notice the back of the person sitting in front of me 
and they have recently been out in the sun too long 
and their skin is peeling in an increasingly intriguing pattern 
and all I can think about in that moment is helping them out 
and that moment swallows the 
entire 
fucking 
afternoon.


--jun 2025