silence

the core of disarray
spreads itself over the floors.
you try to find meaning in a broom
or a vacuum with a five year warranty.
it's after noon. the sun slants again
into a scene from summer. you're courting
winter, sounds of youth scraped
up like snow kept in a freezer that shut down
on the last season.

you don't want to be glum. the winter sky
bright and promising. temperature modulated
by the tilt and yaw pronunciation. how lying
in your arms, bleeding love into your cave
was not enough to save you from your self instructed
catastrophes. now your hair peels like burnt
skin, bubbling on pale fingers, long strands
of red shed for shred. white replacements waiting
in cells dead to the head. you're tired
of writing now. the mess calls for a mom.
put on your hat and sound the alarm.