eh

so, tomorrow's my birfday, and i feel like i should be writing.

but, i'm not.

instead, i'm posting something from the idyllwild workshops that i'm fiddling with:


If your breath is a golden platter
and your lungs live beneath the ground;

I need my eyes to go on without me
and a lifetime of whispers to step out of the shadows.

I can see the parachute silk of your spine
and the burning clouds of your lips.

I fight against the wounding of a moment
and the splendid confessions of your hands,

but leave me my fireworks and starfish,
like a dram, a draught, a potion.

Surround me with your night-time breathing
but do not let me taste the cornfield in your smile.