The man in the kitchen soaks beans. Onions weep
and beat against the copper cookware. Meanwhile
tomorrow sneaks in and steals the bread. Again.
I’ve been loafless for days. The knives are dirty
enough to lick but I’ve got six deadlines on my tongue
already. My hair understands the peck of birds at paper.
I slice the tops from your fingers and lay them end-to-end
like a prologue. This is the scariest I’ve ever been.
My pockets are filled with lyme and letters.
Mostly I like vowels, but M is the sound of water boiling over.
From this tiny window, Casseopia’s chair scrapes
the humbled floorboards. I decide to chase down the thief
of heels. I’ll leave a path of rye. Ice cubes, those quiet beasts,
take the shape of the moon and begin to fall.
Image taken with iphone
Words written on the bed
Brain on old maps, octopi, dangerous waters
Ears on the sounds of everything