little piles 

i live my life in 
small mountains. a pile
of fingers. a pile of letters that
for whatever reason we are unable
toss to the compost. my partner calls me
the architect of piles. this is sometimes
a compliment & sometimes a grievance. 
all the prophets these days are passing 
by in algorithm soup. i saw a post
a few days ago that read,
"i refuse to keep my house
looking as if we do not live there."
i do not even remember who wrote those words 
but suddenly, i am in love with our clutter. 
the piles of books & the piles of dried
corn husks. the piles of abandoned 
spider webs & the piles of shoes 
worn down to the earth. 
i do not want to have a life in which
my feet do not touch the ground 
& i do not ever track dirt into the hall. 
i want to live a life in which i sweep each night.
see in the dust pan a tiny night sky.
all the stars are lost marbles. beads from
a broken bracelet. i make another pile
& another. we go to sleep inside of one
& wake up in another. as a child,
i used tp be ashamed of our house's mess.
used to choose instead to meet friends
in the graveyard. piles of bones. piles of leaves.
now when visit my parents' house
i find a history of piles. the piles of tomatoes.
last of the season. piles of bills waiting
to turn back into moths. piles of 
our cut hair. year after year, falling as horses.
we live here. we live here. we live here.