Down

twenty five flights
of baby steps
and still, I cannot find you.

Behind a screen
the mother of all liars
hides you
in the last room
I will ever search.

The page waits—
Oh Daughter of Imagination—
for your fingers
to speak those words
your mind denies you.

Reach

inside your voice
that dark, crowded place
and count yourself out…

One, two

three tongues
that smell the difference
between the teacher
and the taught.

The wall is lined with masks
and while silence sits in the corner
the face called wife
cracks a smile

and her sister
wipes the last tear
into the first bottle
of light

And so it is
with this strange blend
of Johnson and Johnson
that I shampoo the white wash
from my lungs

stand up
catch my breath
and shout
from the shaky bottom
of another day.

As one final
drop of truth
slips up
and out of this hole,
between my toes
the ground works
itself


I finish the sentence
and
jump
off…