Tossed up by the Ankles

From the armchair

I think to myself: How painful it must be to be born over and over

While there is always a death, lurking

Waiting for the chance to bust from its backyard chain. 

When I turn to the outside

I watch the feathery blossoms

blush their respective season.

At the same time

the two of us

tangle and wrap

like drapes

by an open window

Someone across the street

takes our picture

And it makes your nervous

And it makes me terribly sad

that someone could strip us

from the living room.

So just for fun

we get closer to the sill

and stare in silence 

at the street traffic

take everything we see

and bring it closer to us.