Sunday, June 28, 2015


There are enough hands to paint
with lose brushes the edges of this world
but not mine, unintended for the dab of color

enough is left for the mornings
grey with silhouettes
and soft-spoken sunshine

 I do not dwell in the houses
where the roofs are stuck to the floor
with haughtiness around the corners

like spiderwebs, chronicled
for the missing moments I avoid
when I am not looking

you hire my hand, for today's dish
for tomorrow's wish
a clean stove, baked bread

I result from the ingredients
I give, salt for the completion of wounds
and anger for the sandpits of childhood

here, it is quiet, under the blankets of my room
I sip in air conjured of too much fairy dust
and a little hint of carelessness

breathing in the night,
I sit and attend to the watch
of things moving, still

There are enough syllables in the language
but mine are reserved, for after the speech
before the script

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