And I am all but reading. 

Repairing your flesh beneath a veil. 

Children. 

And underneath the exhaust flows. 

Over the river, into the classrooms. 

Never weapons. 

One massacre. 

Something with cancer. 

Important now, the list. 

Those sweet and some salty. 

Never soiled and never bruised. 

No existence. 

Connection slowed. 

To a place of past happiness. 

A place we know to bring cancer. 

And weapons. 

A place to exhaust all your reserves. 


Do not continue. 

Do not begin to go back.

And then told this is why life consists of. 

The beauty is there and also here,
pouring to the ground in a fit of grace. 

Then exists an image to focus,
strangle and bury. 

Wind and leather under salt licked wood. 

The shivers and the ringlets, coarse
reciting numbers. 

A trident to inspect nerve damage. 

Twenty second synapse misplaced, 
the fire dies and a dark room
overflows, a place becomes home
and the lights begin to pale. 

In all these things there exists
a thorn, found ******
torn from its warm host. 

A level of love severed.

It is so lonely here.

A phone call to inform me of grave robberies. 

Just the removal of this leg.  One leg to find balance. 

The sea tells me I am just searching. 

In the same sea I accept your disappearance. 

Morning breathes. 

Your voice on my door step. 


The morning holds a breath.
 
And you speak. 

The words begin. 


Stars fall, breaking the cloud of thirty cigarettes. 

Unnoticed, they rest aroun us,
As anxious snowflakes on some Winter night.

What am I supposed to do now?

Now that this is. 

And knowing only there are more
moments to come. 

I am to be here feeling the ships

sinking and the lights dimming 

then extinguishing

with no discretion between

the two.

He's wearing my favorite shirt. 
And he speaks in tones of peppered loss and rageless loss. 
The claws click against the veranda's shade. 

His pockmarks glow in the reflected dew. 
So quietly announcing the sun's stretches and it's yawn. 

They arrive, my fast continues. 

Beneath the grounded carpet,
The ***** brings me towards the river. 
The color green surrounds me, my reflection quite to speak. 
I stop to look above and see the black clip of flight. 

I look to the paper and begin to finish. 
The ink runs out as I enroll in the water's treatment.

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.