June 21, 2011

It depends on your definition

I entered her house
While she slept
I changed the floorboards first
One nail per night
I continued
Every bit of architecture
Till the same house
Was a different house

It was a gradual change
She never noticed it
Or maybe she just pretended not to
(She hid impressions behind her hair)
So I started to call during daylight
Working in the awake open
Sometimes I didn't leave at all
My labor was silent and separate
A ghost machine

I painted the whole place
I tossed everything overboard
And bought it all again
I answered her mail
And the door
When my work was done
I watched her bathe
She stared silent, too
In the cooling blank water
Waiting for something
To begin
Or end

June 2, 2011


V was a six foot two red head, born a twin. I knew her when she wandered. She had a high soft voice, like whispering above an airplane engine. She wore caramel lips and a clever smile. At times, she took so long to say hello you were left tilting with your mouth open, falling in to her neck, soft as ferns. She was always crashing relationships into shore, after which she’d pack a bag for elsewhere. Her landlord was a round woman from Naples. When V left with her single suitcase she’d ask,
“When will you return?”
“Who knows, there’s so much to see.”
“Yes my vagabonda.” 
The last time I saw V was without notice or surprise, at a bar in Brooklyn. She’d boarded a bus in Cleveland where she’d taken up work as a grade school teacher. She had a few dollars and wore boots that came to her knees. She asked me where there was dancing. After a drink we walked out into February’s night where she evaporated into the ice.