remembering moments on hilltops, suspended in
the sky, we were the fibers in a weaving, close knit
in lingering patterns of threes and four.
do you wonder about this freshwater ocean that blossoms at my feet
I wonder of the appeal and the repeal of the oak
trees that always sang me to sleep, and carried me into the light

I've long had this obsession with windows alight,
when the air shimmers with floating pieces of lives in
technicolor, I have something to watch as I lie, wide-eyed and left to soak
through the evening; you see, no matter how tightly I knit
the people in my life to my chest, I am always left twenty feet
apart from them when I need them most for

keeping me in touch. four,
five, six, seven, eight. trapped in my own prison of increasing daylight,
I drink coffee after coffee and fret about the things I haven't done, and the feet
of clothing piling up on my floorboards. within
the scope of a week there are three solid days where I am unable to knit
myself properly, truly together. a half-sodden cloak

of apathy, drenched by rain-misted windows and thimbles of oak
pollen I've sewn to my heart to remind myself of the four
years I haven't talked to my father, of two closely knit
souls bitten apart by youth and distance. the days when I softened the slight
pulls at your shoulder blades, where I could see miles and miles of a life in
shades of red. I'm burying myself in the sludge of desperation, I am fifty feet

under the swirling surface of a frosted lake michigan, clutching my feet
in a position where no one can hear a word. I am left to croak
when I'm aching to scream, "**** it, *******, I knew of this mess I'm in,
blistering in the cold, one thousand one hundred thirty-nine point five miles, four
years I had to take and knew you wouldn't wait." light
creeping in on the horizon while I sip my twelfth coffee, carefully knit

between my comforter and the sheets. I've never had the patience to knit;
I'm a wanderer, a dreamer, a vagabond on feet
bound by restlessness and the ache of a lifetime spent catching the flight
of the wind on a clear autumn day. I notice the shaking of my body while I soak
in the trembling of treetops, the bursting of my seams for
things I can't have, the running of hands over fabric worn thin.

I had men I could have knit and purled, I had trees I might've loved like texas oak,
I had feet, I had solid friends in fifteens and four;
I had these in the light, but I caved to find you lost within

today I found my heart on the sidewalk,
grey and purple; streaked with the past few months
I said, hello there
picked it up and put it in my pocket.
darling, I said
I thought you'd gone missing forever

it's not so,
said my heart
things can get rough,
but someone will always find where you have hidden your stars.

I remember that picnic in the summer,
gold sunspots in the cold
and now I lay in my bed looking at the city
thinking that maybe I can just remember
about my filing closet from time to time
so I can stop misplacing my organs

fragments
pool under my skin, press outward on the thin layer between
here and now and
me and now
when they fissure and seep out
they are glass jars on my desk, dotted with fruits,
plants watered and green,
they are summer days spent living
in short dresses, feeling everywhere on the bottoms of your thighs.

I am walking around in a haze of love,
melodies of days spent into the ground,
the perpetual feeling of contentedness with these
broccoli concoctions, incredible people,
the beauty of how a warm day falls into place
and filters through glass jars
blossoming with the hardwood floors of tomorrow.

sometimes I wonder
like a clock-worker, twitching gears and springs
why we are programmed to fight for each other's survival

I watched my sister wrinkle;
crumple in place over problems for which she
lived and for which she cried
for those she could never stitch back whole.

what is it
when self-programming is charted and mapped,
through simple fixes like plants and a weekend spent painting
empty gridded sketchbooks and hand-picked
letter combinations,
that makes us turn to those who fall apart in our laps over the inability to place
into the proper places their springs and gears

I'd like to spend summer making you look at the sky and realize it's blue because
you woke up this morning and noticed it
but maybe I will stay here protecting
my plants and my paintings from uncertain puzzles,
wrinkling puzzles and springs