I’ll sit here under the hanging tree
and I’ll reach up to where my feet will be;
the grass beneath my thighs
and the fog from my sighs,
then I’ll reach up again
and again and again.

I bet we’re all screwed here.
I bet you’re beneath the hill too,
bundled in your winter clothes
hands at your nape, ghosting
a phantom touch
that won’t haunt you.

Twinkle twinkle little star,
we knew that we’d never get that far.
at birth, we set our goal on the horizon
and now we pray we’ll never wisen…

it’s too late, though.
IV’s in our wrists.
and our skin is cold to the touch.