when morning wakes
I dare my soul
to speak aloud of places
– of somewhere
I been going for a while

on roads
no one would notice me
as barely getting by –
footprints melt the same
without the snow

without the only map I have
for leaving –
I’ve forgotten
the way we fit
when everything made sense

except for how
the roses grew
from april thru december
with silver horns
and petals known
to stain
the window seal

signs
I never thought to read
foretold another future
moths are busy
knitting
winter sheets –

keep my sleep from knowing
where you’ve gone

. . .