Dear Bully-Cops,

I fracture the cloud that holds myself together to tell you which way the driveway faces, simply because it’s sinking.  Had the neighborhood kids been wishing or climbing those cropped trees, I’d have fainted in the worst place.  You have the rest of the grass in the world to talk, but allow me my iron bridge, my island, but know and please honor all body impressions in the snow, all of them, because wolves pray, too.  The friendliest bear wanted to come over to my house to eat dinner, but the second friendliest bear got unhappy and tore the friendliest bear to fluff.

My complaint is in the muscle, but you’re sitting in the ghost horn and you’re ready, and I’m once again waiting on the sidewalk, and everyone sees you, saw you.  My owl-friend has only ever looked at me twice, but he’s always there, and so are the hallways and the nails and eventually the stains.  I regret my cowardice in general, and I regret your neglect of park benches.  My fingers and lungs regret badges regret ice-lakes regret the aluminum in your faces.  I can’t emphasize this enough.  Lines don’t matter, nor tables.  I hated that time, but the worst were the fireworks, when they lost it inside when you and heavy-headed cars shot around, your natural dance.  Who’s to say you didn’t know where your shoes had gone, but why bother descending the stairs, I’m comfortable right here.  Let’s sit before you arrest me.  I’m not a hat-wearer, and I fear.  But I can’t, I can only imagine what the density feels like and how it hears and lingers.  Most of all, they know the city was once full of people who liked, and we liked to roll down hills in our dreams.  Where did you last see me because I know you have seen me before because I remember the name in the newspaper was the same name as mine which is the same as everybody’s, yet the little building is feeling colder.

Which is what I don’t understand in the air—in the mass that makes the porridge, where the cigarette smoke goes, where you see and fake to see.  It’s the way you want to spell, as though the ground actually led to the shovel.  Most hummingbirds need to chill sometimes, and I don’t believe in the number twenty anymore than I know I can believe in back aches, mosquitoes.  The slapping is what it is.  An accident in the brain, what if it’s an undetectable tumor.  Persuade, they said, oratory, the tissue can be lighter than it looks, see.  Where did you think the up went, anyway?  I, in the capsule wondering nearby, the stop sign hovering instead, wishing for large boards of soft pine to build.  Easter eggs just aren’t my thing, I hope you understand.  It’s the last thing I want to eat apple-cake in the night time while I await morning.

I have no reason to run, but neither does an unhappy cat.  My mother’s very white picket fences don’t keep the neighbor from calling over dogs barking too loud, yet the garden continues to hide seeds.  Where are my clean clothes that I hung up yesterday, but why did the clock run that fast, now the time is over five times quicker, yes, yes, I know it happens.  The clink-clinking.  I tried to clean up the popsicle stain and thanks for the cold rag, it dripped all over my arms.  The ground continues to puzzle me, geometry, veil-tents pine green for the respect of the company.  I respect the shoulders without question because of my best friend.  I love it, don’t you hear yourself anymore, or where would you have gotten the idea?  It isn’t a liquid, but a solidarity, closer to speed without height.

I’ll tell you my wish outright.  Hot air balloons but when the jet trails are complete and I’ve eaten breakfast.  Perhaps the question is inside the cuticle, why else would my mom have loved me.

Sincerely,

Katie