boundaries machine

i want you to know i don't begin 
where you end. i begin 
in dwindling october daylight
when the plow drivers 
shut off their monsters.
there both our bodies 
are the eldest corn stalks.
our roots are a love language. 
i am always knitting a field 
where my chest used to be.
use gorilla glue to fix
paper wings you made me.
put them back in place.
fly as desperate as late season bees.
cut corners. crimp hallways
into rippled paths. 
raise my translucent fences
with signs that say "i want to be
entered." make yourself at home
& stay awhile. there are berries
wash & ready. 
i have the boundary machine running
in case i fall in love with you.
then, the device will
slip us both into glass boxes
& you know what they say
about people in glass boxes.
stealing a pair of your socks.
snipping off a lock of
you hair to feed my lantern.
what keeps you up at night?
i think in cyclones about
how sometimes i send a thought
like a paper airplane 
to your ear & it comes out
of your mouth. it's like
i am a river & you are a river
& here we are parceling out water.
when i see you i want to say
"please take my house."
i don't have a house. 
doors drop dead. you ring
a bell outside on the street.
my machine roars alive. 
puts my heart in a hope chest
with blankets & a wedding dress. 
come here anyway. let's break windows
& chairs tables & altars.