Because tomorrow I will be almost thirty,
I've decided to buy a house
with rolling floors, windows all painted shut
by the ones who abandoned it last winter
who didn’t worry about stiff paint brushes
drying to the countertops, stout furniture legs
and the oil in the rain slipping down the street.

Somewhere there are layers
of the dead that make up the soil,
paleozoic dirt clods hatching bone seeds
and plumes of thatch. And from behind
my book on the many uses of short kitchen knives
I remember the feel of my forearm
against a deer’s neck—watching myself
in the black glass eye
and reaching in deep for blood
like a pioneer in snow.

I dreamt that I'd tell you,
  I dreamt I'd convince you.
I dreamt you would love me
and I too would love you.
I dreamt of perfection,
a dream so romantic.
I dreamt you would smile
and carefully panic.
I dreamt you would hug me.
  I dreamt we would both see,
together we're better -
  I dreamt you weren't choosy.
I dreamt up the ways
of how I could tell you.
I dreamt up bouquets
and a time and place too.
I dreamt that I told you.
  I dreamt that I could do.
I dreamt that it happened.
  I dreamt of a breakthrough.

instead i told you
at 3am   drunk   on facebook
*and i took it back the next morning