I’ve coiled

myself like

walnut shells

in the margins

of books

with yellowed

pages that

smell like

other people’s

finger prints.

I keep

the company

of the brief

voices of

dead writers’

rattling paragraphs

of ribs, marrow,

and wind chimes.

I’m perched on

an indent and

cupping

punctuations

in the palm

of my hand.