shard raze the necks of withered dandelions coil like wet worms around blades of grass still spent from dreaming. an ant drinks the sweat that stains an apple shaving's dehydrated flesh. the water i poured into a tin can this morning is already warm enough to bathe in. a robin with a leopard print chest lets me creep almost close enough to touch its wings. there's a slingshot-shaped fissure in the parched earth that marks the spot where i've buried the frayed fabric of my faith. a shard of glass served as an unwitting headstone until you plucked it from the place it fell. now we sway in the shade our bodies made when the sun failed to cook us from the inside out. 230531 what's it to you? who go blather from