I write because the words
already live inside me
scrambling
to 
escape
 

have you ever thought about
how you are aware of your limbs
of where they are in space
even when you can't see them

I rest my hands on the bark of a dying
maple, his body insect hollowed
I hope my warmth lingers, a comfort,
as I try to plug up the holes in his body

beneath bark and lichen both
(if I disregard the interlopers)
he is smooth

I have a secret, I am fallible,
an animal still, I...

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...