I lay down on the covers and listen
to the sound that wood makes when it moves
when it moves so slowly you can barely notice
as spiders crawl on the soles of my feet
they move unashamed like the
Lepisma saccharina
commonly known as the enemy
or silverfishes
under my floorboards
I have got no meter
it makes me write like a renegade dropout
smoking outside the doors of
junior high
but this is not poetry I write
it's testimonies
of how I looked further and never found
much of anything
I'd sweep quietness away with one sudden movement
like when smoke disperses
with a waving hand I can expel
all that is wrong like if I
broke the best china and saw the violets
in pieces of porcelain on the floor but
I know that silence is thick and
nothing ever breaks against linoleum