the room is empty
as a smile, walls that stand
blank as eyes waiting for truth
as i fumble for stolen words
and like children they
spill from outstretched palms.
a gift to the gutters,
a gift to the gods
who laugh in my wake,
inviting me to whiten my bones
among them, among their
house of trees and their
all-knowing shadows.
landlocked words that sit
stagnant in my muscles,
whimpering in cold corners
and clamoring at whitewashed windows.
i want them,
not the labor, not the anesthetics,
but the small, pink-lipped
baby of them.
words like garbage, words
like paper Mache, or as
silent as both.
they are maddening, porcelain,
but they are mine to nurture,
mine to cure,
mine to hold.