A Heaviness Natural to a Day like This

Every thing feels like a totem
(saturated paints turn to pregnancy,
a blade of grass or shoe is lonesome)
and I sit below, breathlessly.

Saturated paints turn to pregnancy
with careless tears mothers cannot calm
and I sit below, breathlessly
writing sonnets on my palm

with careless tears. Mothers cannot calm
as worlds weigh down like an empty bed.
Writing sonnets on my palm,
the movement drowns in my head.

As worlds weigh down like an empty bed
a blade of grass or shoe is lonesome.
The movement drowns in my head.
Every thing feels like a totem.