You envy nothing. Not the firm riot
of trees casting closer
as boat pulls to shore. Not
shore. Not road. October’s
chroma wash blank
against the shoulder, does anything
but make you touch
tongue to window-flare,
orange pure as burnt salt.
First time you walked
alone, heavy with four o’clock
darkness, the long slide off
the aperture, pupils soaking
blackly around. Reach in your pocket and throw
those crumbs out. Want no one. Want
no home. Cramped fist. Lump of ice
wedged in the throat. Wait for it
to melt, or choke.
