sample this, a script for the innocent
deep topography otherwise forgotten
all lands rest before the next heaven
something stops to speak inventions
how to crawl into corners, how to sleep
how to tamper with verbatim
curiosity has its own moods to stretch
one body touches another, we reconsider
our dreams are the last vowels to break
nothing knows itself after the first force
except the score of ivory memories
intact through our eyes in dying light




Sunday is more like a month
It happened this morning
Hibernating into life

The wrong shoes, the wrong hair
What will the future look like
No time, I run across the street at yellow

My father used to buy the newspaper
It never had the funnies, though
Just dead bodies, severed politics

A drop of mint tea on the page with your poem
An accident, I hope you won’t mind
I’ll lick one off your lips later on anyway

Nature and its unfamiliar names to me
Those larkspur (?) look softer than the sky
This thought, rain sliding down over every color

A flame hums under the oldish kettle
Night is a fluffy towel over my shoulders
You’ve found your keys, you’re in, you smile

We’ve slept too deeply but I’m awake now
It will be another morning for you soon
Outside, silence sways steadily, pitch-black

This was a song, how could I’ve forgotten
A half-eaten waffle, a sunny kiss goodbye
I pull up the comforter and listen

Today’s failures were strictly planned. Essential. Especially the parts where I am to accept and heal and grow.

How we love to tell ourselves the same stories over and over again.

So we talk. About other things. About being happy in what we know. About being unhappy when we don’t understand. Which is often.

The facts I know might not apply to everyone.

I am lazy.

You might not be.

The best view of any place is on a boat.

You know I’m wrong
and you think of how beautiful
your city looked
upon landing at your local
airport a few nights ago.

I like reading into fire.

You like reading in bed.

My secrets are taken in capsules.

And so are yours, but we don’t talk about that.

So, again, we talk about other things.

I wonder how many words are wasted in not knowing.

This morning felt like destiny. The wrong kind. With car horns honking and cruel-looking eyes. The cold. The queue. What’s present, what’s absent. Incorrect numbers. Red in the face. Not the right blue. Paradise is Maui. Or the Bible. Or a power outage that will please let me go home an hour earlier, just this once. But that’s not happening. All the other things are. In their own way. To whom they may concern.

I pout.

Today’s failures were strictly planned. Essential. Especially the parts where I am to accept and heal and grow.

How we love to tell ourselves the same stories over and over again.

Let’s talk.

Speaking in tongues or parading gimmicks on a leash,
I circle around my words, galling shards between my toes.

One tear might as well be two. Or more. Or many.

I am used to asking the wrong questions.

Does courage come in a box?
Will it make me pretty?
Can it tell the future?

I curl the lint in my pockets deep into my fingernails,
Heartbeats folded frantically into a messy response.

Last Sunday’s map of a city I knew well,
Showed streets difficult to walk through,
And bodies of water that no longer exist.

A song on the radio belongs to my mother,
Who was buried on a sunny day,
With the same doubts as mine.

Evening falls upon corners the clock insists on exposing,
Each door I’ve left ajar stands ablaze but forlorn.

I am supposed to be someone else by the end of something,
If only that something were a clean name again.

Underneath our steps,
calendar days make us stumble,
serving as thick reminders
of their ever-growing greed
Further out, winter crawls into our ghosts,
shakes the wrong words out of them,
leaves them bare,
past iron, past death
The night swells back into its foundations
I am standing, however,
pressing against an invisible war
The hiss of the usual
rough around the hundred stones,
ornaments of my nature
and my rustic sense of hope
A landscape is near
I cannot see the risk or the real,
only a red sun that ripples
high above an insurmountable frontier
Infinity gleams through my hands,
and I, an impossible net,
keep myself wide open,
unwritten, possible