Beloved,
we are barbed and blunted,
or so it feels as our fever cools.
Another autumn,
another winter of waiting for June,
we pace corner to corner like worried dogs.
What will we do,
so naked, so bloated,
so ready to run?
And whose hand will turn the key?
Who will release us
into tomorrow’s storm?
As we leave this coop,
will we crawl, or walk, or limp?
together or apart?
When we find ourselves
unencumbered,
who, beloved, will have won?