they built the wall slowly: one foot
at a time, leaving space around frames
for windows
and doors,
spaces to enter, or leave;

walls built of stone, meeting
at corners, spaces to one
day grow dust —

and what is your home
if not for¬†your dust —

we all have our earliest

walls built, eventually climbing,
climbing until shuttered by rafters,
by shingles and snow.

now it is later; the trees in the yard
have matured and the house
won’t hold heat

and still there is warmth in the earliest
walls: first corners and stones, those
which eventually sink, every year,

inch by inch back to the earth


today i stayed in bed ALL DAY! things you can do from bed:

write poetry, call out into the hall at your roommates, drink coffee, take pictures with gunther, be adorable as a direct result, read books, text your sister, watch videos on youtube, empty a hat, plan in/words readings, eat pasta, be sad, daydream, research a novel, write your friends’ birthdays in your planner, call your mom, watch movies, organize old photos, look through old scrapbooks, edit old writing, e-mail the girl next door, smell bad, have naps, jump on the bed, make the bed, unmake the bed, drink more coffee, not worry about it, be loyal, be friendly, be mean, think about swans, unthink about swans, re-read chapbooks put out by friends, listen to sublime, listen to leftover crack, listen to ok go, chat with your friends online, ask for cheer-ups online, receive requested cheer-ups and periodically cheer up, throughout the day.


too many bugs was
her reason for leaving, she became
by dawn a traveling memory
with my suitcase

there are signs that only
she believes in, that spaces
remain vacant and
pristine until a moment,
a kiss or question asked
over bent knees
occurs inside them, that
grids in city
planning are designed to prove
that it will work
she doesn’t trust you if your
street curves, if you
live on a dead end.

the bathrooms
and the kitchen where the
drains are, the side
door and the vents,
the ducts,
that come up from the basement

my eyes.

at three a.m. sometimes
i stay up in the
flourescents of the
bathroom, crosslegged
on the counter
i force out blackheads,
it’s recovery,
the way at nineteen i cut
bangs to hide the
blisters back
it’s another world in there —
if my ragged
straight-chopped second-
hand-store-scissor-cut hair
is big i pretend i’m a
or a groupie in corset leather
i put on lipstick, red,
and stare into the mirror,
try to recognize myself
in my own eyes

an oldie, but a goodie, for reasons that are entirely, beautifully, my own.