(Untitled)

the positional asphyxia 

of bending around what is not mine

folded up and fed to the floor vents

haunting her jewelery box

the hinge that creaks on the back gate

bones beneath the garden path 

in radio silence and hushed tones

the dragonfly twitching on her windshield

in the wiring in blue walls 

this sacred space created 

for them alone — i bleed in,

and i am lonely 

for things hard-built

and peaches and work and quiet

ive missed spring again:

days move differently in the periphery

of prophets and holy men

and humming kitchens homegrown:

i want my hands only where yours have been.

and i would never ask you,

not once,

for anything