III.

II.

in the weight of the morning--
wait of the mourning--
strangers collect their questions,
cards in their hats.
the sun is a broken bulb.
bruised clouds, purple and green,
are shaped like the faces we left.

I.

on the bus, I saw a woman who
looked like you without the drug overdose.
claustrophobia pricked the blister of
my dream, my oblivion,
now a stain on my seat.
questions assault then situate themselves
next to me, ignoring the strangers
who ask them.