escape

there's always an escape to make
the stuck door and lost handle passed
through the light windows of amber
thoughts held in a slow syrup of sun, why
encased in life's spills
the sweep in the corner, and a poem
folded in the dust
the slow leaf in the short summer, lost
in the occupation of counting toes
one too many and not enough, each silence
crushed out and smashed
against the mind's cold war
shattering on the walls,
a fragrant echo dying
coming back to a milkweed flower
one day flying