Zombie

I prick myself with
needles to feel the blood, but
I'm already dead.

All Written in May

Behind my eyes, hot
tears readily prick, then run,
trailing lines of salt.

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Summer’s confusion:
Rosemary bushes reach for sun,
finding only sky.

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Especially for Ash

Awake or asleep,
cats express disdain too well—
or is it ennui?

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Peace eludes me.
My heart is too heavy for this
wintery summer.