Sep 23

The Feathers of Fall

Sep 10

Another

I want you
on nights when the sky 
catches up with the morning moon
and my hands are weak 
from prying your words
out of the doorjamb. 

I awoke last night
with the mist of your fingers on my wrist. 
I only remembered your smile. 

You ignited me. 
You looked at me
and didn't turn away
and I wasn't afraid. 

“Whatever you are doing 
is the most beautiful thing.” 

Someone finished painting
the hallways white last summer. 
Maybe they are your excuse. 

Did you forget? 
Do you want to?
Is my name still written
in the dust
behind your house? 

Do you still hide poems 
in your palm before the bell? 

When was the last time 
I kissed you in a dream? 


 
Sep 05

The Clockwork of High School

Are we all one burning torch?

Is my head just a shell for their money? 
Is the sky a hole? 

Am I another cog in the wheel of time?
Stuck as another piece in the repetitive
puzzled cycle of knowledge,
pressure, and ignorance?

My mind is a kettle
and you are boiling it over. 

Come. Remove your heat from underneath. 
I have started to wail. 
Aug 22

The Aftermath of Wisdom Teeth

The hole in the back of my mouth feels like a cavern,
something you could hide a runaway in,
someplace you could lose the enterance to.

The salad bowl on the top shelf
in the kitchen cabinet is dark blue 
and reminds me to open a window in the middle of the night
when my jaw is on the floor
and I can't swallow on my side. 

The freezer is now my friend.
I want to shove my whole head in the gap
between the frozen peas and ice cream,
bring a blanket with me and sleep there,
wake only when the week-long promise of healing arrives. 
 
Jul 31

Tuesday Morning: Kitchen Contemplations

There is always time in the morning
between galaxies
and orange juice. 
 
If you had a jar with a lid
you would try to save it, 
give it to the girl 
with the pressed lips 
and the eyes that crinkle.

You’re not sure what to make
of half-built cities 
except that when they haunt you 
in your dreams the streets overflow with possibility 
and the rooftop ridgelines are hunched, 
bent at the hip, 
against the skyline. 
 
You’re still soft in the middle:
both raw 
and burnt 
and never giving up.
Jul 24

A Confession for the Neighbors

I am mostly 
one for knots, broken strings, 
holding things I 
should’ve let off 
long ago. 
 
I am not a poet. 
I still get lost looking 
for home 
and don’t mind much either.
 
I collect wandering words
and release my own. 
 
I found a notebook today.
One that had surely 
been washed from its author 
many minutes ago, 
wet
from some other’s toes,
and probably, if I am completely 
honest,
tears too. 
 
I am told to find a map 
and come in from the rain 
without blue ink 
running down fingertips
but 

my feet
are tied to this spot
and maps are better
upside-down, anyways. 
 
I’m sure you have witnessed, 
in a downpour, birds 
that still sing and a young child 
pulled along by the wind, 
screaming into the sky.
 
Jul 11

Before She Falls

Jul 01

Sea Meadow

Pages