Our violet buds close,
open to white shovels
all in a line.
Time is like your
foot tapping, trapping anthills
in the grooves of your shoe soles.
We sat through thousands
of sermons—said hundreds ourselves.
Closed now,
my shop of shattered
things, my raven croak
gargling sunlight.
Conformity isn’t as bad as they say.
Rabbits zig zag even when
they’re alone. Dead, we all conform
anyways. Might as well die now,
let ourselves cry steel nails
jammed deep down in our sweaty,
symmetrical palms.