Sunday, August 2, 2015


oh, these fingers are lonely; ending-day
docking from private world

to private world. whatever listens. wooden boat

calls to me- and i surrender


and i strip it- and i feed it-
and i call it a toad-

training tears to feel unwelcome
about themselves. i love shame.

i love its source-

some place
that's a quiet place- and i'm there,

facing no-forgive, giving proof that i know

how to pay attention.

the past, with my blood, on my hands,

i never want to face it again,
sleeping with the furies- who i tell

this is not going to happen again,
empowerment? getting used to it

in my home, looking
at honesty. learning

to like it,

what would i do

without returning my love to

the judging people- my own face
blocking light. the vanished come back

without an okay- they never hatched

in the first place. i'm hugging nobody

but a story

with my wild imagination.