I am summoned by the pulling
Of my heart strings, singing
This shall suffice.

This day, tomorrow,
And tomorrow’s tomorrow —
Bountiful in its boundaries.

There is more to monotony
Than pure ebb and flow.
This pain, this breath,
This flash of light
Will come and go.
This shall suffice.

The enduring nature
Of grief and relief —
This cycling of life.
This shall suffice.

if there’s a will
there’s a way to a place unscathed
where the willows grow unbothered
and the fortress of destitute
is the safest space to lay
where reclusion is a promise
of pleasure not punishment
and a herd of deers
is a kindred comfort
the most
if any

there’s a half empty suitcase by the doorframe
damp footsteps echo from the hallway
they mark the hardwood floors
the way ink stains fingertips
a deep dark violet
lightened only by serpentine strokes
revealing a singular identity
knock knock
I am me
invariably

If I was in your way
Why didn’t you just say so
Just toss me to the side
And head north

Instead you took me along with you
Kicked me across the street
Dragged me through the dirt
Until the air in me had deflated

Until you got to your destination
Until I had served you my purpose
Until you left me just as you’d found me —
In the way, now flat and lifeless

Once again, September has come.
And just like that, the air thickens
Like the year before this
And the one before that.

Only this stubborn September
Marches in heavy-footed, loud-mouthed
Like a fascist on a podium, claiming comic Uncertainties behind a lectern

For the hopeful to hear —
The wide-eyed, rose-colored seekers.
We are silver bobs hanging on a wire,
Stricken by Achilles himself.

It is December soon.
By then, our ankles will be sore,
Our heels pierced,
Our pockets empty.

The arrows come shooting
Like eagles on a mission,
As we swing endlessly
Back and forth,

Suspended from a fixed point —
Praying that time,
Hoping that gravity
Makes the clacking stop at once.

if tables could talk
they’d echo all the life I once knew
they’d tell you I take my coffee black
and my friends seriously
they’d chant the names I no longer call
and share the stories I no longer tell
if chairs could speak
they’d say I sit with my legs crossed
right over the left
they’d tell you how my feet burn when I sing
how my hands tremble when I dance
how the world spins ever valiantly
around the four corners of this couch
where I lay on nights the bed feels too vacant
if stairs could scream
they’d yell from heights I never could take
and count the steps I never did make