Trouble

Trouble comes and its shape is unknown.
It is thyself she says.
But we have our doubts.

Trouble comes and its shape is doubtful.
It is the unknown she says, it is of that you are fearful.

Trouble comes and we greet it in the night.
It has snuck in because the door was ajar, because we turned all the lights out, because we left the dishes stacked up in a waterless sink, tried to forget until morning. It worries our necks with persistent tautology. We awake to red scars the shape of doubtful, self-inflicted fingers.

Trouble bellows. The noise interrupts our fitful sleep, vibrates weakly bonded eyelids. Eyes open to darkness. The heavy disappointment that follows a scream. We appeal to the sun. Eardrums ring with the sound of humanity. A bed the size of an ocean. Tides of sweat crashing against our shorelines. Lifetimes erode as the night bows out. And again. And again.



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