THIS PICTURE OF A HOUSE IS MY  HOUSE

I can see blood on the toe of his boot dark I don’t know
what mountains are monuments for but delete me whole


where the tree with snow and the moon a fruit
upon its branch is a skeleton together on saying


what’s already been said in winter, the doors
won’t stay closed, the bells come on wrong, why


are there bells to ring for no one forever ours,
fingers the wind wills move, holding no fruit but


quiet, a flower describes, no, but names
no, the garden grows thick with palms laid open


shaking no hands, claps no saving, tangling, fights, no
but a million fingers point and say sun, as the fingers


follow, the hands hunt, every name is written with
something like a fist around chaos has no sides only depth

return to ISSUE ONE