after all this winter, i just want to stare at the sky for 3 hours, taste the air for 7 days and watch the clouds in each and every shape and hue they want to take ;; grey, now patterned white, now dollops of blue ; the sun on my face is a friendship i do not remember ; a bird calls and i talk back , swell of warm raindrops now, wildflowers growing next to a chainlink fence, ticky tack houses and white picket fences like perfect teeth ; drizzle off a rain gutter and that bird is still talking to me ;; things that are stale too, like craters dug into the earth, plastered with cement and filled with bright blue chlorine water, where we are all astronauts with no helmets ; we float and flip in juice suspension — a science experiment gone right ;; things that swarm too – like pale pink tile in the rest stop; like spinal branches speeding up to the blue sky // the birds and the branches and i, we’ll stare at the sky for 4 hours and sing the clouds to sleep,

savannah, georgia

i watched the twilight pull the first night star out of the shadow of the sky and remembered what it is to just be ; to just be a set of eyes ; now we trace down through the line of trees, past richmond, virginia; a parking lot of yellow school buses; tractors stuck in space ; mobile homes flying down the highway; a marsh, a puddle of clouds upside down ; the trees change as we scrape southwards, and the grass preens itself, glowing itself green ; now pine, now palm, now dipping through the names of these states like several constellations in a ladle


this city, a small lace skeleton of rusty bones and swinging sighs from spanish moss and ornate steel; pastel shades and ghosts; the squares dancing with each new nameplate, each strident figurine placed inside of stone ; the river laps up onto the sides of the cobblestones and the patterned bridges; laying themselves across fire brim walls — lanterns flicker (electronic now, but still the glow dances), wilting branches seem to hold highways of effortless weight on them // a porch, a finger-ful of ivy sliding up brick, the curvature of a doorknob ; city of elegance, wide streets, praline smiles, clip clop horsing feet, pecan hands, racing steamboat song tugging away at the seams of by-gone days , down the twisting stairwell, across the boulevard covered in willows, past the peeks of first blossoms, under evening bulbs, watching the moon pull a cargo boat across the specks it leaves in the twisting water ;; warm air, the smell of things growing, down where wind sits lazily in the long hanging branches, and the light tucks itself inside the space between each leaf

and what if it wouldn’t break ; what if there’s nothing to be afraid of ; what if i’m just the same // i’m not a leave-r ;; my lavender spoon is still spinning and i am sturdy as a rock, i am not flighty, i am thick with presence ;; it’s okay, i can be patient; i will be patient /// i know my brain is lying to me but i wish i could unpick my neurons from the sticky side of my skull // i wish i could tell my story, if i could tell my story i’m sure everything would be clear //

i am grateful for the dream of being able to give to others, to fall into the sky and let the world keep imagining me ; i am grateful to be able to create anything at all ;

white

ice rain, like freezing glass covering my little home; my little twirling honeycomb of wood and paint, my twisting reverie, always bundling myself like wrapped paper towards what has become a white winter ; hands like cupped eyes circling the sky, holding bits of atmosphere in my skin , remembering that down at the stream; down where the water trickles so slowly it icicles itself into a molasses embrace; down by the stacks of stones placing themselves like books upon a shelf, there is a quiet that knows only the cheek caress of firs and pines; that softly carries smoothed brown rocks from one place to another in silence // my sloshing snow feet fill themselves up with powder, i am a balloon, i am woolen and warmed by the amber glow of a fire that does not crackle but whispers heat lullabies like a dream // i am maybe winter now, cascading into white now, all buttercream eyelids and dream frosting ; folding myself into my own molasses embrace of myself, by the fire, cascading into white now