this is a place of joy, I guess. the sun rises and sets
in brassy exclamations of light. I write poems
about being in love with nobody but wind.
my mouth is a little red animal. I love lightning—
I live at the top of a hill and roll my body down
until my bones hit lake. it is a big fake dream, living
here in a house made of ghosts. it is easy
to be invisible in the woods. if I start making
a movie out of my life. if I pan out to show
a blue car rumbling through Kentucky. if I cut open
the chest of a wolf and find milk. what then.
I could leave here forever and never come back.
I’ll say: this is the road I traveled away from
this place. this is the national forest that cried
out my name as I drove. this is the coyote I saw
as I left the state. I’ve never seen a coyote, but
I sometimes dream of heaven. every place I have
known has hurt me. I have always been a set
of containers. I break and am jostled in the backseats
of cars or in cardboard boxes. this is to say
that I miss the soft things. feeling safe
in crosswalks of cities I love. I drop a pair
of scissors and catch them, the shears
open against my hand like wings.
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