The flowers welt,

and the bees die.

The trees wither,

but so does summer.

Detroit’s summer

killed everything.

I hated that heat.

Everything died,

and as much as I

didn’t want things

to live, touch me,

but they felt like

me- and I felt like

all of them, dying.

Trying to live, and

suffering in their

home that doesn’t

want them anymore.

 

I feel like death.

But they all do too.

Everything does.

And now I see and

I don’t mind them

so much.