right half

the barn you made, sheep and straw,
strays from the border, collected,
stacked, unnecessarily failing jenga rules

you wonder ceaselessly of things
that could break the links.
remember, no matter how dark the sky,
how hard the ground, the horizon splits.

the wry laugh, the right half, always
opaque even when sitting besides, bedside.
I'll forge the wrinkles into the sheets,
unmade - better any god damned day.