you’re still very small: you

don’t take up much room,


here in this swollen

swoon of little sips and


tiny turn-key tips

like bread-crumbs


to follow down

this crooked path.


you create your own

paucity of time, which


is always

just enough,


just tucked into your

breast-pocket as you


dig through hidden

portholes, running


straight-laced lines

directly to the muse;


swiftly turning the hurried

world upon its haptic head.




light house

some people never open

their windows; they don’t

even know the light in their

own house: on a hill, up a wish,


down a well, over the bows

and arrows of this slant-death

that comes too quickly

and without discovery.


they don’t know the planes of

their own ocean floors, the jig-

saw spread and tongue-in-groove

lilt of sloping wood where you can


lie flat for hours and breathe

deeply for the first time in your

life: buried briefly far and away

from the shiny hammer of terror.


if you never attend to your

fear—to the full tilt and lift of the

continent sheets; the vast forms of ice:

the spite—you can never attend to your love.