retreat i carry dictionary to the bottle cap with the goal of losing one word at a time. pluck them out like eye lashes until i image bubble. carbon in the creases. carbon in the air. build humans to stand tree-like in the causeway. take me for what i'm worth: a necklace of fake pearls or a second ear-piercing. sewing an umbrella by hand i decide to name it "sundown." in the mirror, a dinner plate looks back at me. i want to eat less & more. survive off only windchime feasts. language saunters up & down my spine & i tell it to settle down. i tell it not to bother with whatever it is i need. the lexicon is a neighbor smoking on his/her porch & watching the plow go by. for now, i don't have anything to say. the last truth i told was about my tongue in the grotto. a "you" laughed a lot & i cried hoping to skim the you towards an "us." i replace the word "vacation" with "vow." i want to take a vow to a beach no one else knows about. unstick "us" from the ceiling. walk, a shoe in each hand, & fill them with quartz. the mine is open & ready for theft. replace "mine" with "morning." i want to tell you how to word each other into the right basement. turn the lights off i want to suck on my pictures in peace. can't you hear the world turning to fabric? rustling then gone.