The boxes of bread seem smaller. There are sixteen of us under the dustmoth's slight. 

He's from a state far away, but will not tell why. 

In the window held together with thin aluminum panels. 

There are ten half moons tonight,
held in phase with infinite hesitation. 

The moons keep my heart from speaking. 

The brain above separates. 
Falls to bed, pilless but none sadder. 

Seven thorns on top of my palm. Their pain travels to a fractured elbow. 

And the marble is now clean. 
And it is sad to wonder.

I am eight years old in my father's basement. 

I search for answers with a twelve year old girl. 

Her hair falls past her hips as the skeletons shift and scrape towards the new rush of cells. 

It is breakfast time. The walls begin to warm, the sun blows it's fried smells of grease into 
our noses. 

Our stomachs burn and we place our soiled 
hands over our soiled skin in hopes of closing
this sense of hunger.

From the north military trail,
A purchase escorts with purpose. 
Compassion leaks from wires. 

A newlywed smile. A pair in ecstasy,
acknowledging a departure with time soon enough. 
Eighty year salutations. 
Twenty year questions. 

There is. 

Core drilling in Paris. 
Exodus. 

Wearing glasses 
underwater. 

My time is now
finished.

To hold your heart, trained and influenced

On my trail, a silhouette 
holding smoke, 
mine to barter with
some item that is not yours. 

A shadow of grain in the sticky 
thorny roots. 
 
Smoke from the barn's tantric fuselage,
below space, to think
or in gestures, recreate. 

As to observation, 
most of all is dark. 

I'm spoken to.

This life. 
Contained blood. 
Bones fragmented.  

Now interesting. 
Walking above asphalt. 
Grassy knolls. 

Below steel windows.

And there is no one else. 

 
And whom I've returned to places razors in my throat.  

And I chew and swallow. 
In silence. 

My hands glides below and I return to a damp Hell. 

And it is not you. 
Will it ever?

Will my fingers obey? 
And will I pull myself from those watchless places? 


Yet. 


They visit. 

And my heart rings. 

No tone. 

Yet. 

A fully his reminds me. 

Not to live much longer. 

To dig graves and never enter. 

And baby please tell me. 

Where you are. 

Who you are. 

The health exits my eyes. 

In return a call is placed. 

And missed. 

My eyes. 

Everything you've pulled from others days. 

And why may it not be mine own?

There rings a woman in bronze. 
Form frozen in hesitant beauty. 
For all to taint. 

She holds herself. 
Ruins drift closer. 

Behind her a grassy road. 
Lush for tortured soles. 

Full of disuse. 

Me here on American asphalt. 
Sparkling. 
Dazzling visitors. 

Stay for our comfort. 

Me here. 

With seasoned whispers. 

Time creeps and rushes past. 


She watches. 
I wait. 

Collect tin cups. 
Stain my fingers with faded ink.