April Fox

There are days

there are days when I could

stare into the sun until my eyes

went white with fire and my veins burned

with the leaving of my sight

There are days when I could

draw the hours out, stretch them thin

as taffy, wind them 

sticky and surreal around themselves 

crumpled in my hand, picking

minutes from the grass

blind and waiting

waiting

for you to turn your back.