THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW /3

There was a hunger, a desperation, for words used in a different way—to decorate the holes in the ground when one steps across invisible abysses across the day—

that delicate traversing through conduits, bridges one could say, from one unsteady moment to the next—

unsure of what the self has become—so impatient, seeking purgation of the uppermost kind.

Sentences packed in an expanding suitcase lodged in the stomach—can help, mysteriously, to continue underneath the wild sky (that does not need us), collecting itself for storm.

Something else or someone else needed me. Someone will notice if I don’t emerge. It’s time to release the hurt bird in my pocket. The music goes on and on.

Not everyone experiences the same confusion that hits when stepping from one’s house (shell) back into the human world—even to the mailbox. How lucky, they are.

If you drink more water, the body will remember where it became itself, formulated wet wings to hover waves and more I cannot say.

Please forgive the directions, such as the way out of the treehouse where you hide—trying to enter childhood that left you on someone else’s back porch of dreams.

Stay there a while until the squirrel signals with its tiny hands clutching the smallest sunflower seed to crack the shell in its teeth—that it’s time to throw something together for dinner, tacos perhaps.

No one will need you (mourn your absence) in the same way.

I did touch you, but I froze the photograph, suspended ime. I brought your favorite things but couldn’t find you.

Wearing gardening gloves, I climbed a ladder (finally) to return the hurt bird to its nest of elaborate twig and scraps of blue and clear plastic. Maybe it misses me.

Sentences and pages may exonerate you—that Möbius strip on which you often cringe during the travel, hands up, look at me, I’m moving in a bright direction—one more year around the sun.

Some transgressions are unavoidable. There are habits behind closed doors that are questionable at best.

Rituals upon waking and falling back to dream can be inevitable—your favorite coffee cup, that symphony in your head.

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