you always fly in here

like coattails caught up in a draft

aimless and hurried -

alighting on any soft

dream that resides between

these walls;

poison concealed,

and carrying away with

you the ambiguity of

thought

and the uncertainty

of hands

and the chaos

of all of these mornings,

muted hatred

of

you

within our breasts.

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2011.