in spite of
the desperation of
your written word, you have nothing
to say
to me.
.
for the first time in my life I
make no motion
to fill these empty minutes
I listen to your silence,
and
.
.
.
.
.
I make you end the call

does august see me?
as I hide beneath trees, first
from heat, now from rain

I am from a wicked thing
our bushes hungry, so often trimmed
that they from spite would never bloom
instead, with thorns, they skinned my shins
I am from the landing of
twin staircases, steep ways down
the victorian floor making steps a chorus
the carpet stained with god knows what
I am from a new trick door
built by my father the summer before,
one within another, looking like trim
so my sister and I could not capture each...

    In the house by the meadow, there were a thousand open doors. 

    I looked out into the blackness of a nocturnal sea. It took me a moment to realize the glint that I saw was from more than my lantern. Something was looking back.

    To tell this story, I must begin with my mother. 

    The shopkeeper was known to tourists through tinkling bells and bright, hollow things. To the locals she pedaled...

    Although spring blossoms still welcome themselves to the threshold of my porch, I believe that I know what this summer will taste like. The rich char of a bonfire will cling to the inside of my teeth. Lime popsicles will dance across my tongue. The salt of the sea will wash in with the rain, and pine will taste solemn, like old love.