every lake is a spiral galaxy

i want to still believe in tenderness.
the world has had me living 
with mouthfuls of glass. i talk 
& speak through thousands of days worth
of nests. wires necking above the city.
lakes come like cousins. i never knew
most of my family. they live 
with real doors & real tastes of green.
i told you yesterday i am going to
buy us a house so deep in the forest 
no one will believe we exist. 
i am worried that to be gentle
is to be not here at all. thinking of
lamb's ears & how they are listening
to every single harm. they are doing nothing.
at least the stones decide to grind
& fall & break into more of themselves.
there is a cliff i dream i was born from.
the sensation of losing a larger self
to become several smaller selves.
i collect my softness in marble pouches.
spill them at the feet of any tree
who wants to listen. a collective shrug.
on television somewhere we are selling
stuffed animals. they are arriving
in card board boxes. i want to purchase 
every thing i need. i want to buy 
a patch of clothe always large enough
to lay me down in. i cannot trust 
every glint isn't a waiting fracture.
the way i used to smile before
lightning killed the tree in the front yard.
that is a lie. my father cut it down.
with his bare hands. it was such 
a huge woman & she knew everything 
about the universe. wisdom leaves
without a tongue to trace. when i find a lake
i will not be sharing this knowledge 
with anyone. the opposite of soft 
is maybe hoarded. keeping & keeping.
my secret basin. the stars dart like minnows.
they don't even know what they are.