the view from in here:

the curves, colors, corners—


forming the anchorage of

you. the angled wood running


down hallways, dreaming of

being trees in a time before


scarcity. she didn’t want to grow,

to move, to change; she knew:


something is wrong. she crept into

the wall and fashioned herself in-


to a knot: good for the slaying.

from beyond she is still saying:


throw me a line. it continues

to feed our gibbous infamy.


sometimes there are no words

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it’s easier to draw a mask
than a face.

the seams,
the shapes,

the closed geometry
clicking into place.

what is a face?

you never truly see one;
it’s always shifting:

lifting to the light,
closing in on the dark.

you hide in the nests of its skirts:

hoping to catch a glimmer of
something silver, some thing

you can hold in your
hand for a time,

turn over and over
and absorb.

what is an eye?

you get lost in one, spend the rest
of your life trying to climb out.

your greatest fear
is loss and pain—

but not for your
self, not any longer;

having a child in this world
automatically transfers

that fear, that thrum
through every thing,

that stronger drum bleeding
in sync with every

thought that cannot die.

it’s easier to use words
than lines.