The world is an ocean but no one told me
just how tired these arms could get
when the night sky drew overhead
like a down blanket embroidered with stars.
Trees bend in the wind in the same way
I lean against the deafening silence
in a train station inhabited only by me
and the way my breath stills the air.
Blades of defeated grass stand resolute
as tombstones for worms and me,
biding our time until the sun
pulls back the blanket again.
C. Brown 