for everything which is yes

Afternoons turn dark;
though I window gaze without,
my sights turn inward.

Sharp mind. Soft heart. Soul
inspired yet broken. Body
seeking after health.

The saturated
earth smells of fecund death:
grass and leaf and loam.

Though it seems the same,
forwards as back, it’s because
the eyes ebb feebly.

And then the swift kick,
the sickness in the stomach
that negates all else.

A fairy tale now,
this projected narrative
will soon turn novel.

The white labrador,
in the backseat, blinked softly–
like those clouds above.