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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