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.

behind the old door
Jane hid a young boar
for she feared that her tired mother
would never take another
not with her father at war

ring out the mourning bells my dear, the daffodils are dead
and now that we needn’t fear the frost, time covets her stead
she crept through the warmth of these past weeks, to lay her lips to my flower bed
and wrinkled lay the corpses, this morning where she was led

last night I met my girlfriend's family,
(we've been together two weeks)
I sat beside her, at the diner table
and across from her little sister,
and we kept smiling at each other, in brief flashes,
because though no one else knew
our knees and feet brushed against each other
under the table;
her house is on the water
and the moon was out in full
so we could watch as it competed
with the houses across the bay
to dominate...