i will stop holding my
heart out like grocery
samples, take this,
take this, I've heard

we take we
think we deserve--that
of lonely people, then--

i would love to give
to the lonely but not
myself,

if not a hand-out then
bushels of peonies
wrapped in brown
paper, in bloom
and beautiful.

i don't think i have ever
let myself heal in between
storms, i have shacked up
with missing roofs and
bullet holes in the trim
the rain soaked carpets
a mere nuisance like
creaky doors--
but lord would I love
to pop the seams on
every shoddy job i've
done, lie all the materials
out on the floor and accept
the work, look at what a mess
I am, people can love messes
but for their sake, I would
like them to love
a little more so--


don't mind the holes,
the haphazard strings
and leaflets--I am still
learning and moving,
sewing, accepting,
working.

i still hang my arms
out the window because
i need to feel the wind
i'd never call myself claustrophobic
but i've always been fonder of
wide places, as much as
my house feels like a
trench i still walk in
and breathe home
whether god is there
immediately or not
I have chosen to
believe he is present
in the most petty of
circumstances, even
then as I sat on my bed
debating the gas mileage
to his house, and instead
taking off my shorts
and turning off the light--
that each of these low blows
has been engineered and if
rolling with the punches
were any more true, (possibly
caustic) then I am willing
to take each hit or
throw a few if need


be.

it's still very strange
to silence a place as
you walk past
or to hear that you
are a ***** from drunks
i once thought that
love carried over
into rough circumstances
but I can see that people
will gather on sides
proclaiming their support
and hurling rocks--
i just never thought
he'd be the one to
listlessly watch
it happen.

i still remember how
it felt to hold your temple
fine dark hair reaching past
my second knuckle
and now my fingers plug
into air, i still rememeber
just how much to spread
them apart to accommodate
the sharp shelf of your
forehead, how to trace
your brow bone without
waking you up and
brush your eyelashes
to show how careful
i really am, these details
scare
me.

there are eggs on the stove.


and the house is clean, been
gettin' enough sleep, a little
bit free when you drop some
constraints, put up a little
gate--
and the right people like
to come as they please,
the wrong just sorta
skim the outskirts
pace the edge of
town and find
themselves wet
rags to peel out
of bed, but I am

rising
to meet
the day.

i've never wanted to
haunt a thing less--
when you find the
house is full of
ghosts and ghouls
faceless creatures,
and you're another
cold wind or chilling
touch, much as you
don't mean to be,
sometimes you
gotta just break
chain and go,
you're not
much of the
phantom type
anyway, meant
for warmer days
or a means for
such on brisk
nights.