What are the chances,

I keep seeing these wolves, and

you keep coming back?

Love, ***, jump; repeat

***. jump, give birth to statues

excavate cities.

Nothing
hungers
more
for
your
monsters
like
an
empty
page.

I picked up a collection of your poetry
and it didn't take all night to read
You talk to yourself a lot.
I am now empty more so for knowing
how empty you tell yourself you are.

there is a fifteen minute cab ride
or a 45 minute bus ride
that makes the most distance of this city
but I would walk to you at any hour.
Regardless of any change
I may carry in my pockets,
there will always be an open hand
for you if you would take it

Somewhere my mother shares her bed with nobody
after being twice robbed of her covers
by the same man
she has never returned to that softness.

somewhere else my father sleeps with himself
and cries for having held on for so long

There is a grace we don't allow ourselves for letting go.
you need not be in love to hurt,
you need not forgive to be alone.

I think you are everything I reach for,
though for fear my throat is empty of your echoes
I read your poetry
and some nights I ride the bus home
in the other direction.

How do you live here? / who's sins have you / do you forgive yourself / for the sake of what you believe / makes you? / keeps you in momentum / sails unfurled against the clock / How do you live here? / which scars do you show / which ones no one knows? / what parts of your skin were you born in / what parts of your skin are new / drawn over / coloured outside the lines? / what parts of your skin have you always been? / How do you live here? / who's laugh track echoes in your ear / a recording of a long since dead live t.v. show audience / or your now since becoming nameless childhood friends? / How do you live here? / how do you occupy your skin / your sins / your echoes? / what dreams keep you asleep / what dreams keep you awake / what dreams keep you? / How do you live here?

What was once green
finds grace
in falling
finally
to sleep some day
beneath winter
snow storms on mute
through the anonymous eyes
of neighborhood
windows
to dream
in degrees of spring
of blooms
waiting to ignite
inside of her

And I wait for her
ashamed
of my mortality.

There's an old joke that goes,

"The Sun sees the earth and asks,

'How is it that she shines so?'

"