september breaking
across the sky
like a bone, 
air reeking of rain.
skin sticky with it, 
with a humid sort of love
we can’t wash off. 

somewhere,
the city is alive,
but we’re not in it.
we’re still trying 
to build homes
off the highway,
trying to talk glory
about every speeding
car that grazes us,
trying to talk gory
about all the times 
we did not die,
but could have.

all the times
we did not die
because our mothers
called.

september shattering
the sky like glass
and we still can't 
scrub our skin off
and we’re still
slapping love away
like gnats. 

somewhere,
people aren’t so
careless with their hands.
somewhere,
i’ve spoken to my mother
before now.