Mind Like Letters.

my mind like letters

sits shelved and

quiet,

collecting dust,

degenerating,

dreaming

of the time it

will feel the rumble

of the cabinet

cracking open,

the sliver of light

passing over,

becoming active

from the hand

that selects

words

for conceiving

thought.

Untitled.

She is not one to say

what is on her mind

until I tell her-

place the words on her belly

and cover them with ink and sheets-

I press her,

she picks up some

but not all,

I press her

harder,

gently forcing

to sound out every letter.

Her translations quiver

at the edges

but are full of body-

I work her,

wear her,

re-ink her,

till she is vibrating,

breathing, rolling

my words from her

loosened tongue.

Untitled

I dream

for a moment

and my skin slides off

my muscles as they drop

away from my bones

as they loosen my joints

as my mind exceeds

my body and I

disappear through the thick

of my thoughts that trail

after a memory that covers

the land that arches out

over and back

into my body

and I feel that tiny burst

of relief as time lets go

and I fall free

and unfinished to tangle

with the leaves.

Mind Like Letters

my mind like letters

sits shelved and

quiet,

collecting dust,

degenerating,

dreaming

of the time it

will feel the rumble

of the cabinet

cracking open,

the sliver of light

passing over

and becoming active

from the hand

that selects

words

for conceiving

thought.

Untitled

Trace the body

to understand,

memorize a memory

transparent and rubbed

with charcoal to be

revealed. 

Untitled

I dream

for a moment

and my skin slides off

my muscles as they drop

away from my bones

as they loosen my joints

as my mind exceeds

my body and I

disappear through the thick

of my thoughts that trail

after a memory that covers

the land that stretches out

over and back

into my body

and I feel that tiny burst

of relief as time lets go

and I fall free

and unfinished to tangle

with leaves in the tree.

Embodiment

I am house I am host I am post I am sign

I am line I am rhythm I am traffic I am breath

I am wind I am window I am viewer I am viewed

I am moved I am turning I am turning I am turned

I am stopped I am walking I am waiting I am told

I am passed I am past I am lost I am found

I am familiar I am different I am separate I am connected

I am tree I am grass I am glass I am fence

I am entered I am entrance I am open

I am closed I am bridge I am water I am fountain

I am puddle I am gutter I am drain I am rain

I am public I am private I am shadow I am forgotten

I am distraction I am built I am ruin I am stone

I am alone. 

Untitled

my eyes

trace a memory

real and imagined—

my hands are full of text,

drinking letters while my mind

pours out thoughts—

and the letters are still,

only alive

in the body

that reads them.

Untitled

I lie fractions apart from imagined beings and tangible bodies

His head and shoulders curl

into my lap.

Like a child

he finds comfort in the deep,

old warmth of womb.

My fingers work through

his silk hair, swallow the nape

of his neck and get lost

in the space between

spine and skull.

They push,

rub, a pressure

spelling out unspoken language,

to touch and be touched.

I hold him with acute awareness

of the space that fills around me,

the tangle of knees,

the knots of the spine,

curve of the back.

My hands read the history

bubbling from his skin,

the paragraphs written in the flexing

of thighs and pushing of palms.

My body is written in his story.

A Conversation Between Walls.

She looks lost most the time.

Maybe not lost but confused or bored.

Sometimes the lack of light burns her out.

I’ve seen her move from

the bed to the floor and back again.

She stands in front of me a lot.

Staring.

She’s been gone for a few days,

only stops in when she needs to

change her clothes.

Good thing we have the plants to talk with.

She’s not one for much conversation.

Ah but what about the times

an other has been in here with her.

Do you think she knows we hold her?

I think she knows we hold her.

She knows we hold her.

It was not always her we held.

There were different things hanging here.

Different backs and corners

of furniture pressed against us.

She must know we hold them too.

We keep them separate from the rest.

Does she hide in here or live in here?

Where does she go?

Good thing we have the plants to talk too.

This room would be so quiet.

*Unfortunately the layout of the text did not transfer here. It is much more of a visual poem.