Monday, June 25, 2012

Upon Your Return

alone in the house
with few sounds

sometimes an
insect bumping into
the panes

pouring over maps
stacking books
just so

the breeze
sucks my hands
out the window

living in this
smashed down

it's been easier
to write
nothing at all

avoiding language
by moving it
in heaps
around the room

this morning
it won't lie still

barking out of
my fingertips

I tell you
this is the real

every morning
will be pressed into
our palms

like a coin from
a doting relative

Saturday, June 9, 2012

the rough sketch of an inability to write

there are no words to eat
the city is barren
I can't see anything

lost to

to bricks

this world in the morning
is a quick heat
and feeling nothing

perhaps only a need
to be lifted up
by my hair

but what do I know
of this immaculate season?

finding things from within
is murk, like river bottom
and the last sip in the glass