You find it difficult to keep your lips shut.
A hazard. Pushdown.
Fallen birches sash the embankment.
Then, the feeling of worn neon, weak wink.
How inaudible your own emotions are,
A tiny portion of sadness lodges like a squeak
in a flute, or anger subtracts its own perforated edge.
The overcrowded boxcar of happiness just thunders.
You press the damper pedal, jam a thumb
into clay, pretend those trees won’t
blaze as logs in another fire.