Stripped of resonance,
I shall in spring melt
with the snow and be absolved
for once in my brief tenure.
I haven’t decided yet
on how I shall inure myself
to the knowing, prodding fingers
fixing to unstitch my bones.
There’s a price for loneliness,
as one can expect. Sometimes
it’s a pine box, while others,
it’s a great big headache
plunging you to extremes.
How is it even in dreams I still get wet?
Consider me a setback,
or a bled relic,
or an overzealous underachiever,
and I’ll return crying over spilled milk.

-r. miller

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