dreams left off mid-breath remain mid-
night
I sentence myself to living home
the what we called the woods
where small animals
and you could hear birds betray their own
unhappiness projected by young
minds at the window
gathered at the double-paned
glass barrier
(let us pray)
the sorting room remained unsorted,
still, the levity attached
itself to shadows
and the wind brought low
each branch
golden were the syllables that lingered
now I have a body that belongs
to my maternal line
my heart is safe by virtue
of its placement amid
branches casting shadows
this small experience rides low
within the psyche
within the psyche are these marks
made by chalk purporting
to be everlasting
glyphs make good on urgency
once splintered into these discrete
thoughts
we repeat ourselves when we have said
precisely nothing
to each other and ourselves
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