The corners of the pages
fold in on themselves,
and the blankets are
still a mess from before.
At night the pyramids talk to me,
and the sails of ships.
We converse about who
I used to be.
Hidden under petals,
privately ruling a petulant world;
no one approaching me
with weak teeth
trying to tell me to enjoy
being alone.
There are no ashes in these bones.
Vines grip and swallow me
and keep me warm.
In the morning I make the bed
before weak knees
walk the city.
Alone is my home.
The zipper pull of the
train tracks is
the loudest quiet
I have ever made love to.