Open air

I cannot open myself

I cannot close

We lost our luggage

in the place no one goes

to find trinity,


A whole rose-bush, peeling

revealing rotted roots of the family tree


Inside the pen

wrapped in veins

a pink truth laps 


a passionate haze.

This strange instrument

Settling into bed, back to front

train cars calling pridefully from dusk covers

The railway signals, stars on my knee bloodied by

fatherhood and healing

Your breath blossoms, clarity on my back

and I cannot tell if your kisses are muscle memory

acting on your heart’s accord

Like music I try to set free from this strange

instrument, my body

I can’t seem to give that to you lately

intimacy and tenderness are old friends,

contacts I seem to have ripped up and forgotten

Like fire I try to put out by blowing harder

on cinders

I want to grow with you, but I think of people

as faces in the bathroom mirror

Fogginess is an excuse to touch them, 

dimness is to shine my light brighter,

When I look and don’t see anyone on the other side, it’s hard to say whether I want anyone there

or if I wish

for once in this God damn life

that I would appear, instead of these strange strangers

These thorny humans

All I see in the mirror is a pupil, too stubborn to open itself

and let some fucking light in

I only feel comfortable when I’m shedding my leaves