The gristle in this meat is killing us
with kindness, its fatness quaint
in 2008 as the days
swindle into unexpected darkness,
sharpness of knives kept in a safe.
Kindness has limits we have to obey.
The clock holds out its hands to us —
time appears to bend our way.
We watch it fly out a closed window
to the day before yesterday.
Given the chance to live again, do.
Remember that October the trees turned
redder than your ass in the shower?
I wouldn’t want to give up either.
TAGS: creative writing