My father was born on the East coast.
He is made from Sycamore and
is strong and fragile and beautiful.
In August of last year, I watched him peel
and tear into a figure of splinters.
I could not stop this.
I visited his small apartment.
He sleeps on blankets on the floor.
He does not have any furniture.
He does not have any silverware.
An empty cardboard food box sits on his counter.
I want it to ******* burn.
I want it to ******* burn.
When he smiles, it is a lie.

My best friend lives far from me.
I was raised next to her.
She is haunting and elegant and made from Pine.
She bought me a small journal as a gift.
She drew Sycamore branches on the cover and wrote my name near one.
I have not found what is worthy to write in it.
I have not written anything in it.
I carry it with me most places.
I have not seen her in months.
I find all beautiful things are possessed.
She is beautiful, and she is possessed.

At five after midnight in my room I look at one and two and three year old photographs and I have never been more lost.

I have always been good with my hands.
They are large and powerful and may hurt.
They are soft and vulnerable and may love.
When I was a boy, I built a small wooden bridge.
The bridge weighed two ounces.
The bridge supported one hundred and thirteen pounds.
At one hundred and fourteen, I watched it snap.
It snapped as if by the force of some powerful hands.

I cannot drink anymore.

In May of last year, I became rigid and fragile.
In March of this year, I am becoming more rigid and more fragile.
There was a time when I moved with great speed and force and moved this way often.
There was a time when my body was fluid and strong.
I commanded my body with violence and grace.
This time has become ages ago.

There is a woman I know.
She understands me.
I understand her.
I am happier next to her.

At five after midnight I am in my room.
My room is empty.
I am always alone in it.
I almost cut myself.
One strong, clean line,
vertically,
the inside of my left forearm.
Always the left.
I do not have a clean knife.
I do not clean the knife I took from my mother’s house.
I cannot move.
I live near other people.
They are sleeping.
I cannot scream.
I imagine her walking into my room as I set the knife on my desk and look at my arm.
I do not look up.
She is not surprised.
She is not fearful.
She understands me.
She runs her fingers over my neck and holds my head against her.
She is safe.
I did not cut myself.
She did not come.
I assumed she was sleeping.
I do not think she was sleeping.

She is made from Cypress.
In February of this year, I watched her peel
and tear
into a figure of splinters.
She is still peeling and tearing.
I cannot stop this.

When I look in the mirror, I see my father before I see myself.
I yell, and it is my father’s yell.
My voice of comfort is my father’s voice.
I explain the world and I am my father explaining it to me.

My sister's friend walks into the room.
She looks like an overdose.

After staying awake through the night,
the morning is a sad, still place.
Where I used to work, men smoked cigarettes in the morning.
They worked through the night and smoked outside in the morning.
I could not understand a cigarette in the morning.
Now, awake through the night,
it is the morning and I am smoking a cigarette and
it is a sad, still place.

I imagine a time when I am better.

I cannot imagine making my home in a place without trees.
When I am in the forest,
when fog has enveloped the forest,
when a cloud sins greatly and seeks refuge in the forest deep,
when the fog is still like the legs of hanged men,
when the fog is thick enough to hide the legs of hanged men,
when I extend my arms and they are swallowed before me,
when I am the only moving thing this world knows,
it is a peace I cannot do without.