day 13: nah.

Behind my sternum is a well of water and an empty cavern.

All my magnets have lost their opposites,

all my threads have seen scissors or come untied on the other end.

There's likely a honeycomb built into my ribs,

but they stay there.

All around the outside of the cage is cobwebs.

My skull--

I'm writing and I'm writing and nothing is happening.

I feel so full of nothing.

I can't even slide down the spiral,

so I stay floating.

This poem was handstitched together with no motor skills.

I hate days like this.

day 12: we go back

Your nails do grow faster when you only get cave light

Cave is all you get when morning misses daylight

Day turns into quiet into silence when you wake

Waking up at punch-out, you creature for your sake

Sakes like thesis statements stacking at your door

Doors left swinging wide for 500 years or more

Moors open for your wandering, grayness of your world

Worldlets looming over, now get your knuckles curled

Curl up when it's cold outside your cave, but listen here,

Hear them reach them when they sing you back from disappear

Appear like some great comeback, live up Dandon's scores

Scoring out the notes, legato back, the song is yours

day 11: what comes after

Dear,

What I'm guessing is just some large mode of transportation coming from the bay sounds like one of Jupiter's moons. Every night.

The sounds of celestial beings we've never met makes me think of you. Not because I think you're an angel--angels are terrifying if the Bible is to be believed--but because even in the discovery of something far out in a realm beyond our possibility, there is poetry.

I find it everywhere. I tell you this because you're one of the few I know who I think could understand it.

Hope I'm not interrupting your sleep.

Love,

************

Darling,

There is poetry here on Earth; in the distances we travel, in what we think we see.

But I know you know that. Just a friendly reminder.

I know you want me to say that you ground me. I know that I ground you sometimes, and other times I lift you up. I would've thought everything we've ever said in coversation told you as much.

We're gonna fly there together, someday, when it's safe again. Or take the train, or drive, if there's time. Let's make time.

Don't mistake me, though. I love you, but don't mistake me.

Get some sleep. We'll talk again soon enough.

Love,

day 10: sorry, i'm open

There is a type of lightness-light

On an April afternoon

When you wake up

When you wake up from winter

When you wake up from winter

And the humming starts again

I keep so many things in drawers

All over my apartment

Because I'm afraid

I'll need them all someday

I'm sorry for the mess

Everything is tall

and bigger than me

(When this song plays for the first time)

There is a type of glow

I thought I had back then

There it is

There it is hiding

There it is hiding

And you thought your skull was cluttered

I keep all my lighters and pens

In one place so I can

Find them when the words tumble out

Or when I need to burn them down

Everything is tall

and bigger than me

Everything is tall

and bigger than me

Everything is tall

and bigger than me

Everything is tall

and bigger

and bigger than me

day 25: possum

Even as a child, I understood that prey always tastes sweeter with the fear in its veins, and so would never give the monsters under my bed or creeping down the hallway the satisfaction of surprise--
I kept my eyes shut.

Many frights closer to the homing skeleton in our days, our nearing middle days, take no corporeal shape.
Sometimes they are us, each other.

So I get it.

But a cold shoulder was never the quickest way out.