definingyou said that your emotions werea black ink that poured out of youlike feathers from a wolf's mouthand would stain our hands.but really you have purple dyein your viens and you area foreign language on the tipof my tongue and in my earsand you are a sealed envelopeand you are instruments thatI don't know how to play.you are autumn, and you disappearbefore you have arrived.you are the surface of a river, and Ionly catch glimpes of your fish.I wanted to tell you about theloneliness, and how it peeled awaymy bark and left me bare, bleeding sap,and how the sun did not leave the peakof the sky for days, and how creaturesdevoured my roots. how I could be clayor I could be marble, or I could be porcelain.I wanted to show you my shardsbecause I kept looking for someonewho wouldn't be cut but now I'man abandoned building with nofurniture and soon the demolition truckwill come.
preferencesometimes I put my soul into a glass jar;it bounces around and makes star dust, sothe jar is like a snowglobe when you shake it.I don't shake it. other people do, sometimes.it reminds me of a girl I knew who planted her heartunder the sidewalk in philly and how it tried to growinto a tree and burst through the sidewalk and pushtowards the sky, rippling with root and bark, powerfullymoving and growing and living but instead, it waswrapped in a mantle of earth and it beat slower and sloweruntil it knew the secret of time itself.I mean, that seems cool.I think I sometimes put other people into glass jars tooexcept other people find it hard to breathe inglass jars. they prefer to be put into poetry or paper cranesor sidewalk chalk or finger paint. life is like that:other people prefer lots of things.for exampleshe preferred his oak resin voice and fallen timber eyes.the crease between his thumb and forefinger, she preferredsitting on the car-trunk with him, listening to
ninesimpeccable; gold-plated watchwith crisp cotton cuffsrolled to the elbow; eyeglassesin one hand, frames bent into fingersthe flash of light on glassverbal assaults, dagger thrustsagainst the soap-yellow button-up are white-hot waves,gnawing raw rock face-cliffs;fist-falls bruise only what once was:interior wounds bloom plum blue-blackshadows cut jagged lines acrossthe watch-face. reflections bite thepassive window. the house absorbsthe momentum, the door shock.the architecture of the irresolute.