To wake up beside you as a set of Matryoshka dolls, unnested.
Unwilling to break away, to wake up the rain. That which gives flight. Never in houses. That which is carried. That which is eaten. That which is spirit. That which is slept.
A lost carrier pigeon. The tip of our boot, breaking. Everyone believes the conductor. Everyone believes the next train.
To shout that you had found me. That the night will not come. There will not be any more crows.
To not have a spile when there is rain in the trees. To only pull runes I can’t read.
(Wunjo (joy from bringing together, wonderment, kinship
I’m sorry. I will be late. I will bring berries and the lamppost. I will ask them for their rain. I will leave early.
To have left all the candles in the barn burning. To have left more paths lit than can be blown out. Then can be followed. The rusted iron plow, cabinets, all the harps, doll eyes.
Covering the face of our poverty. A quarter life. There are plenty of trowels. We are all born with hands for a reason.
The ability to be crippled around the wound. And walk. The violet starved. Domesticated and loyal. Hexed.
Crazed hunger. To become mouth. Loss of the life made by hand. Made with a snail shell, a bleeding stem. Wonder. The center of finding the way.
To always fall outside of. Continue reading