Tuesday, April 21, 2015

I have resorted to dust

I've counted 74 boxes inside our house I have a thing for
counting and for boxes all I know is this boredom is painful-- these yawning

days of dogs asleep, these empty boxes full of Want. Mahogany, pine, oak
I wait for them to collect dust so I may blow on them and sneeze to be taken away temporarily.

I saw a photograph of a star and it reminded me of your oldest self, how
I'd put you in one of those boxes if I could, to open when I am in need of awe.

These hands want to make and be lost in some thing, buried deep in warm wet tissue or scratching nails over bark. But it is so green outside my window-- so green I think

shiny thoughts, I think lavender toe nails and new sandals but the air has a chill. And boxes know nothing of today's green's deception: they only know monk-sit and they don't remember being alive.

I will give them the benefit of the doubt: they'd probably spin in circles if they could.
Imagine all their corners wearing away and the sky gone dizzy.

Imagine a day as green on the inside as it is on the outside: imagine warmth: imagine this body

leaving the loneliness it was earth-born into and all those boxes at last filled with old letters.

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