where are you moving?

what kind of furniture do you have?

is your sadness like a blue arm-chair
or a sofa & are you taking it
with you when you go?

when we moved from the house
on main street we rented 
a U-Haul

image of yellow tropical
fish printed on it's side--

i swam-- bubbling bursting
on the hot june sun--

all the way down in hawaii 
where i was born

between the crests of waves
too big to be remembered--

up for air 
in the back seat of
the blue station wagon--

when you move make sure
you take only the important 
furniture--

take the light bulbs 
out of your lamps--

plant them in the yard
at the new house where
the lawn will be soft 

& ready

i wanted to collect U Haul 
trucks for their pictures--

there's one design with 
a horse-shoe crab-- 
ancient body 

arachnid-like aching 
for a dining room table--

another one wears a rocket
ship & we take off

without the traditional count down--

a violent blast--

i'm thrust into orbit 
& below me the earth is
nothing but an 8 ball--

a marble

i can see my house--
a monopoly board plot--

roll dice in zero 
gravity only

to watch them
drift away-- a new element of
orbit--

i want to rent a moving
van but i'm scared i'll
get a lame one with

a blank side--

i'd even settle for
the image of a canyon
to climb into--

arid & orange-parched--

i don't want to take
anything with me--

i want a smaller body--

portable--

compact-- 

me & you in the back
of a moving van--

jostling around each turn--
our father

the wild driver--

don't ask me where 
i'm moving after graduation--

i'm leaving my desk chair 
& my bed frame

like i said 

keep your sadness-- whatever
furniture that might be--

i think my sadness 
is the blanket your made--

it's holes are rifts

in universes i will
someday travel to & fix--

for now

this is the future

card board box me

wrapped in newspaper 

fragile fragile fragile

becoming bats or
nautilus--

the gaping mouth of canyon--

a swell of an ocean 
rupturing with yellow tangs

come visit me 

someday when i find
an address to hide beneath

until then think
of me when you 

those orange & white

moving vans--

i'm in the back--

eight years old & 
we're pulling away 

from the house
once on main street--

watching bones collapse

beams snap--

swallowed by dirt &
wandering furniture--
the dashboard we sold--

still holding birthday cards
in it's teeth--

wondering what it could
have done wrong--

fragile fragile fragile

where are you moving?