Next Season

Each night she enters my dreams

like clockwork,

she coats me in potential

dances her hands down the ridges of my spine 

murmurs through me “there you are,

lifeless, I wonder when you'll take to moving?

Will you wait for the alligators to grow horns?

Will you stare at the blank ether waiting for an impossible god to disclose how you’ll make it?

Take the pressure off,

hang it up in the back of your wardrobe.

Place it with all your rags and costumes 

for the next season to come.

Spring is showing it’s teeth you’re going to want to see this.”