02/23

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. 

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