when’s the last time you plucked a dandelion
from the grass,
popped the top off with your thumb,
or blew back the clock?

-

almost like he always knew
life hung in the wind.

-

breathe, my friend.

the dandelions, running through the yard,
aren’t the spirit of your best friend
who killed himself back in february.

don’t think about it too much.

they’re still pretty—

like long eyelashes, sundresses,
the brutal city.

if it were my friend,
i’m sure he’d have appeared on a less overcast day.