my body is one long bone
in need of being cracked.
(will this this be the last?)
they say when you dream of houses
you are dreaming of your selves;
i keep dreaming of forgotten rooms,
hidden realms, my parent’s walk-in
closet, split-level bedrooms splayed out
like shelves of lovers coming forward
to read me the sonnets of my sins.
so delicately thin, this line of what was
and what is to come—
we are all so old;
we are all so young:
tunnels and tunnels
through which to run.