folding my life into a triangle 

these days the algorithm is knotting my socks
& i don't have a coffin to fit my hands.
to feel useful, sometimes i'll wash the kitchen floor.
get on my hands & knees & become 
aquainted with all our year's dirt.
my father has the hands of a lawn mower.
i have the hands of a trapezee artist
who has long since given up the craft.
creating artifial orders gets me through winter.
lining boots up against the wall
& waiting for them to start marching.
i purchase a piece of cloud & try
to write an old crushes name on it.
the past is made of bubbles or maybe
barbed wire. something to be crossed.
a watch tower looms & i wish it were
giraffe herds. they could do the looking down.
there's holes in my life where
water leaks out in a good storm
but can do nothing about having tried
to bird myself from a roof. when i was 
trying to grapefruit, i would eat
only monopoly money & seltzer.
one crease for girlhood & one for
trying to have a body & another 
for geometry which always did fail 
to impress me. that is except for spheres.
i could exist on thought so spheres alone.
your roundness is why i fell in love with you.
a jungle of cones. holding my life
like a love letter, i deliver it 
to the flock of nonesense birds
who are just waiting for trash day.
i inform them it isn't till tomorrow.
they scoff & take my folded little existence.
deliever it elsewhere. to the sun maybe
but probably just to a tree's hollow
where the birds will read it 
for a laugh. fold it again until
it is another dry orange leaf.