day 3

this body is in pieces at the bottom
of the stairs. what a hassle to collect
yourself when you hands are their own.
what part of myself am i in? i can see
each part which worries me. the basement
floor and i develop a kind of kinship. we bleed
into each other and talk about feet
on our chests. which chest is mine? which one
of us is bigger depends on how you measure.
which chest is mind depends on where
the heart is. i wonder if i hit my head, if i am
wetness instead of splinters. it depends on if
the heart knows the feel of its own hands.


day 1

the first licks of spring always come this way: wet and over-welcome,
worse at first with no care for your dry socks and still all muck. i wish
we were not the degree of desperate that makes us thankful for this.
the days are tepid and long. the weeks are bathwater turned sour.
we sweat in our winter jackets but are too scared not to wear them.
what if it gets cold without the sun, if the wind picks up. what if our
bare arms touch.