Murk

We write poems on balsa wood
Pencil glides like waves
Sleek and stormy
Our head hits the bottom of the wire
Cuts into our thoughts
Breaks the silence
Like a draft
We feel guilty
Lack manners
All is murky
Like birds with clipped wings
Charging into stars
We sink in the sand
Marred by gifts
Syllables and lines
Things made to cut the frayed and fried time.