shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Francine Witte

Page 1 | 2

Again, Inside my Bones

I start to imagine how the river must feel, having
no other goal but the sea, how it cannot aspire

to be, for example, a rock, and a star can only burn
so long, before it explodes and then dies. And what

if the sky itself is just a giant wall, and all of those stars
we think are alive are nothing but paintings you buy

at the airport motel, and the whole universe is nothing
but a house, the only house you can afford, its value

dropping even now. And maybe your own heart
is tender, yes, but flat as a paper valentine, dragged

from one lover to the next, from now until you
yourself explode and die or become like one

of those boats you watch on the river fading into
the ocean, under the sky, and under the stars.