i wake in the night to a

different realm; pulled from


my fuzzy yellow refuge. the

voices i meet are darker, thicker,


carrying something un-

speakably heavy across the


dimensions. every one i have

ever known—even my own


sisters, mother, father: sleeping

just feet from me—feel thousands


of memories away. i alone am

standing watch; am a crumbling wall


between what i thought i knew and the





i don’t know why they are

visiting upon me; but one thing


i do know as i crouch in the deep-

dark pockets of the hallway, shaking


and weeping and lost:      i am



some nights the moon is a train

it takes me a while

to love things.


but then i am

loyally locked in.


the colonial blue

house holds the


key, but no door.

in the back-ground,


the long bow of the

cello sings up from


the depths. one floor up,

children grow in their


beds. dad used to tease

about putting us in a vice


overnight. i took his words

to heart: the dreams that


shortened me still follow—

strong shadows of


nails and hair; of things

that once lived, fighting


to weave them-selves

back in, back to life.


some nights the moon

is a train. i am boarding


her, i am carrying

alstroemerias, i am


smiling as the tiny

gear of a whisper


turns. the shrieking,

pulsing, turning to


blood is all in my

head; out-side, the


view is silent: a giant

wheel of compliance.





healing is always happening

in forgotten parts of the

body, like pockets of fog in a

forest that goes on forever.


in this sanctuary, the voices

persist, like wind: tucking you

into the places you resist. the


only things that are real are in-

visible; but you already know this—


and you are all in.


a few more meters

i have this dream

in which i kill every thing in the house:

the plants, the pets, the shadows.


i remain alive because i am outside the house,


outside myself, dictating death

to the weak and softening. i have been here before,

waxed inside this block of malice, shaking.


if every action starts with a thought, a seed –

i am growing a fucking garden.


i talk to myself in the early morning hours,

walk myself through the rituals:

washing, brushing, brewing, feeding.


eating has become so tiresome. if i could

just take one tiny pill and be done with it.


they say toward the end of a long run you get a sort of second wind,

a rushing of air, energy, purpose into your lungs, body, mind.


i’ve been running for a long time now; i’m starting to disbelieve in

second anything. maybe it’s like getting lost: if you had just gone


a few more meters you would have seen the sign.