A poem falls short; I'd like, instead
to draw a single line from me to you
and watch it curl into a word
so beautiful it's still unsaid –
or press paper to the window pane
so that the day might saturate
a note that brightly warms your hands,
spills birdsong from imagined trees
and buzzes like fat bumblebees,
but I am bound by language, love; I can't.

This is addressed to the ears of whatever is wrong with me.

*******.

I will not break.

This is addressed to the ears of whatever is wrong with me.

*******.

I will not break.

I feel you in the nuts and bolts of me

And if you want to be mechanical about it
You leave the very hinges of my soul undone
Come in

No one ever said a sweet word to me
Without a knife to my spine soon to follow
No one has woke the ghost of my mother
I asked her, “Mother, can you see that light across Peck’s Beach, to the North?”

No one owns light
And it cannot be contained by any set of four walls or three
You see, if I wanted another piece of property
In the form of a pretty face
I’d have traded my mind again
For the spoils of another less-than-honorable war

And her name would be…
What use be a name for that type of woman?

At this point in my life, what name could evoke anything?
Other than yours, the one that I want to sing

I scaled a bridge the other day
What a lofty bridge it was,
Like something you might have dreamed up

Atop I saw a sun so bright,
So piercing
I could not look away

To say it reminded me of you would be no truer
Than all those pretty faces,
You my dear are less harsh than that blistering orb

But to be sure,
I wanted you next to me
all the while that I burned in the sun.

i am for words entirely. i am crazy for them. i am naked in them. they are everywhere i am.
when i walk they are with me. when i am in sleep they are with me. they

grow from me and i am nourished on them. they sprout in all the atoms of me.
they are in all my sounds
and my unsounds and stillness and my motion. they are my plenty. they are

the grass of me. they are in every wrinkle of the morning. they are in every
wry splinter of the
afternoon. they are timid and hot. they are bold and cool. they are in

bending stems of forests in me. in the wind that whispers in the boughs
of the forests of me.
I fill them and am filled by them. we are for each other. and each other for.

i am for words entirely. i am crazy for them. i am naked in them. they are everywhere i am.
when i walk they are with me. when i am in sleep they are with me. they

grow from me and i am nourished on them. they sprout in all the atoms of me.
they are in all my sounds
and my unsounds and stillness and my motion. they are my plenty. they are

the grass of me. they are in every wrinkle of the morning. they are in every
wry splinter of the
afternoon. they are timid and hot. they are bold and cool. they are in

bending stems of forests in me. in the wind that whispers in the boughs
of the forests of me.
I fill them and am filled by them. we are for each other. and each other for.