tiptoeing down a
spiral staircase
to arrive at the room
where a breathe from
a couple years ago
a memory oh I
remember it was the
smell of a worn in
slightly woodsy
breathe full
of found branches
leaning into warmth
a memory



I feel myself control water
around him
he came in through the front
door pouring ballpoint pens upon
the hostess stand
he said he was a hoarder
a few months later
I realized that
he had a
fever and he said yes touch my head
is it hot
now i sit with a heaviness
at the awareness of naivety
glassy blue eyes
and the dark moments
of intuition

room of ones own

sitting in the corner chair
staring at a room of white
and blue paintings that I’ve made
there are plenty of green plants
to contrast
I miss New York and the cold
I would have been feeling
I miss the stovetop that I had to light
with a lighter
there was a smell of
several seasons
of decay and bloom
the cycle
that just isn’t present
in this place
in this chair in the corner
of my room

A reading

Poets speak of nature
all that is wild and free
through a screen of images
the poet voice is prominent
broken only by the
silent pauses
and in between
the poet wears a scarlett
the poet is to be taken