stole your lonely.
memorized the time the sun sat
like it had never sat before

the same way it sat, every day.

your time naked
staring nowhere
cloning wrong thoughts,
in all the right places

you sold my voice
forgot the only time
the moon fell behind the mountainside

the same place it slid every night.

nobody ever told you
that you'd have to remember
so that we could know too,

because the most important way
you can make somebody feel
is ever
at all.

something begs me,

"spend entire seconds alone
spend entire seconds alone"

I don't know.


something is begging me,
"build your hurt into statues;
build your hurt into statues!
and then
take a bat
to their whet stone;
slip and
live
deep inside their cracks"


do you remember when it felt
like the waves
were singing for us?
changing their shape to set us free?
now the shore
cleanses itself
for our farewell.

and your private crooked mouth-

"imagine! if we swam away entirely!
dear wife, if you only knew how long ago my atlas flipped it's page!
my sharp knife flew away!"

the sprinkler system tearing on schedule
blades of green awaken
playing melodies that don't
need
you
anymore;

what was it
that tricked you
into thinking
you deserved a home?

there is nothing that might make this sullen house your home.

i used to be here and
our father
used to be here
and
I used to be here
but

now you can only
see
a ghost
but now you can only
hear a ghost
and now you can only
feel
a ghost.

and when the snow hides our green traces,
so shall the sun come down
to reflect our within;

and when the rain finally comes
to bring out the bugs,
let every single one of them
kiss my skin.

the grown-ups are weeping for their childhood again.

"so much time in the kitchen!",
preparing meals for the children
whose names they still confuse
so often.

the garden outside the window playing muse,
a revolving machine,
a planet whose gravity you wish you held,
fostering and changing in ways you've only prayed to.

is it your skin now that plants itself?
clouds sun and worm moving within you,
would you expect to sprout wings?
is that what haunts your dreams?

your spine spilling it's soil across the counter-top,
sparks peeling from your fingertips,
the answering machine itching to tear your heart out,
your tongue closing it's eyes,
swelling
sweating
spinning
spitting,

the calender blending into your reflection
refrigerated finger-paintings slipping from their flippant position,
the skylight becoming your jail and the mirror of escape,

head up
eyes closed
nose toward the sun,

you can find you can find you can find you can find you.

If it were socially acceptable I would crawl underneath the table to my right and lie down and think.

I would think as if I were in a cabin, and I would be that way right now.

I would think that being in a cabin is a nice and good thing and feel good for knowing that and feeling that way.

I would think that the snow outside is like the snow outside my cabin, and inside here, I am under this table and there are other people’s legs and they remind me of my parents or my cousins or aunts uncles and dogs.

There’s an attic and I go in there and its red and dark and broken and its always been there and it will always be there.

When I go inside there’s a trunk of stuff for me to look through so I can act disinterested;

it’s not cold, but it’s not especially comfortable
and Amanda used to be here,
and I used to be here,
and now I see only
a ghost
outside the window.

(we've been looking for new ways to ask our fathers not to bring their mask to the dinner table)