You speak softly this close, breathe air into these parts of me. This closeness is like noses touching, like toes crinkling inwards that rub against carpet when no one sees. In the spaces between us we can’t see, words grow into thoughts, grow into stories no one tells. I carry your weight in these stories like memories.

 Here, in this loft, we draw out our endings

with paint, fill canvas with what we don’t say,

blend into shuffling cards at each muted sound

we rattle off, nervous.

We cling to meaning

like floss, buckle ourselves down

until we ourselves buckle under the weight of loss,

weight of words lost between us. This absence

is a wrench and with each word

we twist

farther apart.

Truth snowballs out, uncovers layers of melting ice.

Sienna sounds emerge: sun ribbons unraveling.

Each article a watered-down imprint of source.

Filament like stretch marks pulls out parts

stilled from growth, borne of stilled motion,

stretched from thorax to a vessel that holds me, more than me,

these threads extensions of what’s inside.

Words come out as proof of what’s there.

Here, with this loft as vessel, we draw our endings on sienna backdrop. The difference between paint and canvas fills up with everything we decide not to say, the difference between us loses definition with each muted space.

Here in the loft, our bed holds its breath. Cars cross quickly, moments between spaces between people—open parts covered by words. You hold onto these words like floss—dangle me like language from your tongue: free, forceful.

Cherry blossoms make barely recognizable movements, moments stilled hold telescopic streets where these trees line side borders, photographic.

The picture's centre moves, me as wind. I whisper across silenced air and speak like silence, still. I hold the pitch,  for a moment.

The forward force of wheels leaves silence spinning its dust.

Noise comes apart like ribbons unraveling; I’m left with only these words: no, not sure. Now, that lamp speaks to me louder than ever.

Now, I feel the silent presence of my me more alone than ever before.

Sun-drenched and slick, I rolodex through rosters of time, my index of memories strawberry-sweet and wet with rain. I know this spot: the line between glass and sand, anticipated air-bound momentum; pre-moment. In post, the moment becomes a memory, slicks of rain I’m wiping from my rear window with wipers as I drive, distracted, facing forward.

Voice moves up and through me like viscous char. Sun and the warm April air come in my moving window and it transforms, forms new sounds, sticks to parts inside of me, stilled at each corner on its way up. I crack in its presence.

Stackable photograph keychain holds dad's picture firmly in place. It's something I take behind me like a broken pillow, not for the memory or feeling but as an exchange for the parts of me that don't match the me she sees. 

Bathroom door opens and I'm caught, the line between my fear and her face dotted with lies, rules I tell myself to stop from being whole. My dream of me breaks apart like lemons. I offer my keychain, sealed, smooth. 

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

The drag nets dredge up demons from the dark depths.

Fishermen crowd and speculate in hushed tones-

"should we eat it, burn it, or bury it?"

"Is god punishing us? Is it an omen?"

It is easy to believe in evil when the unknown

crawls and creeps and lurks outside the

sphere of our perception.

I am that cherry tree outside my house, black forest earth piling at my feet. The kid who skinned her knees never came back up. Slipping, hands gripped down the trunk on her way down. Clumps of dirt still cling to her.

I caught a cold today.

Mother says I need to take better care of myself.

Watch out. Be wary. Germs are everywhere.

Most accidents happen inside the home.

(My god, what if I spontaneously combust?)

I should stop by the store and get some bottled

water in case the weather gets worse.

Keep your guns and your ammo separate.

We are at ALERT LEVEL ORANGE. (You WILL be ticketed and towed)

This town is "Red Light Photo Safe".

Help keep America safe.

(I heard the flu shots don't work this year...)

Lead paint chips, asbestos insulation, mercury in seafood.

Will your child: havesextakedrugsdrivefastthinkforthemselves?

Does your debt keep you up at night?

Are the Chinese winning?

I heard there's a recession coming this summer-

What is the projected date of H. Sapiens extinction?

(Film at eleven...)

Flap flap flap

thrashing in viscous medium

twist and snap and twist and snap

am I the dumbly programmed sperm

riding the tide of corpses of his

brethren into history-or am I the

one, that solitary one which will

make all the difference?

Seven billions strong

we inhabit this place

and eke and carve

out a life from this

territory.

Gnashing pinching and

grinding against each

other successive ebb

and swell of violence

and retreat on and on.

Races and nations

segregated by custom and

chance circumstance of

history. Some blighted,

impoverished, sickly and

attacked. Are we not all of

a one? Are we not the germs

on the body of the earth?

Ouroboros,

Matamoros,

Sangria spills as I stub my bare toe on concrete steps.

A flap of proudflesh waggles as the blood comes welling out.

The ants will eat it tomorrow.

Greedy little hormigas.

Amigos.

Cannibalistic rites whereby I identify

with the godhead

have been reduced to a thin

weak cracker and a thimble

of dry wine.