my heart is as sour as a poet's should be as sour as poetry It drips of the meagre sounds of its own reflection the stuttering gasp of...

Wooden oars whisper to ears curtained by loose vines of hair, Threading together hushed secrets of the clouds

The strands of my hair evaporate into spirited bubbles That evanescently cling to the fabric of my curtains;

As my calluses kiss the keys on this hollow piano I trace the thread tied to the birthmark on my knuckle

As lights bleed out I watch my window...

Hexagonal puzzles that I clutch to my ribs because the pieces do not fit into molds anymore;

I used the hues chosen from the back of the shelf in an art store, an unclean paintbrush that could hardly even catch-hold of the tints,

But I shiver, Like the arms of the butcher