so says the straw hat

This trunk has familiar rivers rung round it finding finger patterned landscapes like paperdolls and scissors. We have run round this trunk so often and so fast. It is hard to say who leads and follows. There is a pattern I am chasing sometimes certain sometimes fading. I find comfort when my foot lands in your shadow. Ring around.

this house is old and empty. this house has broken floors. I have been here before. I came with the storms. I have weathered these windows and walls. this house is set for ghosts. this ghost walks softly, slams doors. tomorrow I am hammer. break windows mirrors and picture frames. all the glass, all the pretty porcelain, all the pieces. these edges are sometimes broken, sometimes teeth. wednesday I am wind. I came with the storms, whistle through broken windows, fill empty like wind. I am bigger. I am puffed chest, billows. I am bigger. I whistle soft and furious. I slam all the doors on my own, i am bigger. I am only wind. this house is old and empty. i broke windows. I broke windows--ran through it making sound. somewhere there is duct tape, searching for the mouth of wind.

He says under my skin is a waterfall which, I say, explains all the tumultuous wavering. He says that sometimes, he is made from old leaves. I say I can find patterns in these, know how to smell skeletons of growing branches-- make pictures of ghosts. I know the patterns of dancing electrons empty valence shells know electricity. Know secrets, can make light glow. phosphorescence is a slow slow burning.

growing fears up tall like a mountain sapling. digging up dirt. recipe for tears: bedsheets and secrets too much time tracing the outline of a spent heart. I almost dream of an amusement park. I almost dream your questions. my dog puked grass up on the living room floor. At 3:31am. then my toilet clogged. I am going to watch a movie instead.

I am small. I am broken bird wing small. Teeth of the pretty girls. I am small. There was a mountain there. Growing between my shoulder blades. You planted tree seeds. Found a stream. You took your shoes off. Believed in big. This mountain is made from fear. You think it is strength. I am broken bird wing. Pretty teeth. Small.

Maryland, I will give you my front door. It is cracked, the paint is faded. The weather has taken its toll, but you can have it. Brass handle and all. In the heat, the dock stretches out like yard lines on a football field and this morning we were born American, national monuments rising up out of our sunburned shoulder blades. You have teeth like all the pretty girls, perfect rows. The salt from the estuary draws topographical maps on our skin while three hawks fly overhead, so close I can hear the space between their wingtips. They run lazy circles, looking for victims or a branch, just something to hold onto. These shadows of ours grow halos till we are all made of oil, we are an ancient painting, we are holy. I caught a fish in one swallow, ate it whole and watched it swim straight through me. We are thick and textured with this salt and this sun. On the horizon, the storm clouds hang themselves heavy on invisible stars. * Down the street from your perfect square house we