where my mouth stumbles,
shouts,
my spiking spidered handwriting never fails.
(and thus it never fails;
words from my mouth
are always too much for me.)
the fingers that cut a rug
with words I can't pronounce or say
are the same that twist,
useless in my lap,
when you're around.
skittering tools of hate
unprolific things
they itch with what I can't convey

sunbleached like bones

one glance, two,
towards a machine that never speaks,
sit silent against my clever tongue
such stark contrast when the tongue moves
evermore,
shapes strong sibilants even in sleep.
The machine is quiet when you are, recently constantly.

waning in my stomach, dropping further down
bone dust tilting downwards as the heart chisels up
waxing in my chest
glorious but nothing new, nothing i didn't have before
i have waited for you for a long time
but it's nothing i can't handle for a few more years
new in the corner of my eye
shocks to the system--so this is what all of it was
no reason for me to avoid you except rejection

full throughout me
i have been given wings,
but i know not how to work them.
how can i be yours like this?

Telephone rings head turns toes curl
stomach rises
(The Sun Also Rises: maybe today is my day)
we are not strangers,
passing on the sidewalk.
I am not trapped in a tower,
vambraces versus embraces.
I am not a spider.
You are not trapped in my web
but you will not have me again.
(are you going? are you coming? are you)

last night I pulled the stars,
swirling, quiet, bright
out of the cadence of your voice
the noise
the loss of which deafened me
quietly shaking,
you told me of breaking
of taking
of making a life of what you had lost
(don't pity yrself,
you have fingers that press;
you have sonnets that scream--
sad suns, sums of several sons!--
stars burning in stovepipes,
and a voice that sweetly speaks.)
I am too afraid to be too in love,
and both lead to hate.
I'll wait
for some professor to
profess her
richness, more bold and indulging than I

rather,

when i thought you would leave,
harsh, empty words between us,
the moon moving too far,
fat in my window then gone,
i was relieved.

there is nothing so
harsh, empty,
as the realization that, this way,
my hand would be forced.
quiet touches--
brush your hair from your eyes--
but the moon hangs, content,
under the eaves of my porch.
but bitter,
knowing that i would end


up wasting you.
hopeless,
wishing for white dresses,
cloth the color of the moon,
as it moves quietly out of my sight.

you told me i was incredible.
for the first time,
once in all occurrences,
i believed the words
as they pushed past your teeth.
it is almost a shame,
knowing that you meant them, too.