my ash-colored sighs tiptoe up
dusty puffs of

desert breath … singed

paper-thin fragments of me swirl

like question

marks… ostriches flap this

way and

that

way above my

moth-colored pyre of incense…

confusion whispers

“marco” …

“marco”…

quiet answers …no polo…

echoes …no polo

there is no

way for me to

put my

self back

together again…i

am tick with no

tock… i am

mirages of

sun beat exhaustion … i

ripple in pools of

loneliness and

hopeless

oasises where

i watch

pieces

of myself gather

like rain clouds above

my head … but

i…

cannot find rainbow swirls… so

i pray for

angel wings and butterfly nets…

for someone to say

polo… for someone to

catch me

for someone to

bow to

before

i blow

away