but a jar that refuses to be opened
should be left alone to sit.

chatting with melissa.

you know what

there are happy things already

i just need to hug them closer and feel them there

in the morning, a muffled burst.
water cooler clicks before it heats.

i hear the click, wait for the boil.

the water turns, the water burns,
nerves exposed, all breaking down,

so confident of its fate and strength.

leaves, unfurling, end to end.

the water's turmoil makes my tea.

"a
more complex consideration of the identity over time"

broken hands
stay up all night
waiting for another
word

simply wonder

if night has overtaken day
or if day has embraced night.

their children are beautiful, glittering
seeds that burst slowly and grow

diluted across the span of distance,
a few years, some universal memories.

so many tiny drops of spilled milk,
cries unheard from too far off.

the stinkbugs struggle against their trapping.
the neighborhood cow lows.

(this is not a priority.)

say it right, when you find the answer

of all the women in the room the light falls
on her who stands bent at the neck and knee
falls into her tall glass of october morning fog

the question wanders away to leave the lovers
their own concerns distant from unfaithful voices
broken at the endsound of the last step off a train

curveball.

charms of everyday living:
waking up at the sounding
bells on record, echoing
repeats of their own

repeating letters of exchange
thrown off of mountainsides
carrying questions you've had
for a while, now you look for it:

the sounds of falling answer you

if there are any stars
the sky is happy at night,
and if there is none at all
it will wait for the day after.

gone fishing gone
bracelet hooks the wrist
strings and needle patch
the changes back and forth.

fingers all walk down the street, and pinky tries to catch up.

the curtains are soft and dry.