mosaic
I am a mural
of seasons patched in nectar
slowly—bit by bit I falter
Tinkling tinkle—
bicycle bell
bashes my pieces back to
where they belong; Where
they were sort of a whole. At least
I remember them making the decision
that we hate tomatoes
as a collective.
And they ride
on one bike, towards
nowhere specific—
—tinkling, tinkling
Now the shred of rainbows despise
the fragments that watch yellow leaves die;
Flakes of white scoff in frost
when they hear laughter from chips of sun
—No one is right yet
nothing can be wrong
Binded with
what I had, I am—or I was—
no, I am
a Cubist mosaic
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