this treehouse

the tops of church
steeples, vertical hidden
by the breath of clouds, things
move slower moving through them.
things move in familiar.

for weeks, i sat up
before bed after
bed. and i finally
realized what it means
that we each
have our own life.


and the dishes
sit unclean amongst
the foodscraps, fruitflies
the compost bin is full.

and thousands flew out of it outside.