I fear the few words have escaped me,
like green leaves gone red
somewhere between the border of this season
and the next. jericho has fallen and my trumpet sits
in a dusty case (in its
lonely place) somewhere between
the triumph and malady of a broken wall. we can
turn the tv on, if you like
and share the dismal sound; the
sadness is better that way-
somewhere between two hearts. the
sky went black early tonight
and I sketch to you starless
and needy, still somewhere
between and boy and a man. now
all is quietly chamomile,
I’ve never been trained to say
what I want. Sleep will envelop me
and this stamp will always carry me to you,
regardless of the inflation of
time and regime, ideas and truth. and
the truth of it is , somewhere between
the frail parchment and creased corners,
just that.
-christian kindschy
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