12:30

I am leaden ballast,

sinking this blanket into the hillside.

My hands are unbelievably heavy.

Words and words and words

have wrapped themselves around my ribs,

tungsten strands warped into letters.

My breaths are slow, somber. 

I suppose I'll lay here in the grass,

on this scrap of cloth.

You're stuck elsewhere --

a situation that is resting on my chest,

a ponderous weight

atop my sternum.