it's become a book of mismatched honesties, which means only that i am making a fool of myself again.
again and again.
if we had a home down here, we'd never want to leave.
this is all entirely uncrafted,
uncrafted and undrafted.
i have a sneaking suspicion they're only found in you: adventure and home.
i'm raking leaves into piles of mundanities.
should i be ashamed to knock at your generous door?
twin and opposite souls,
a town to append to my name,
i want to keep house,
pies curtains comfort
boats
the eyes of boys, i'll pluck them out myself
fresh from the vine.
everyone has come dislodged from something,
i feel as if i'll never land
don't let yourself rely on me, i may just fly away,
it takes years for me to nest in someone's heart,
centuries.
surrounded, i remain perchless.
i'm tied to the maypole's string,
round and around.
have we crossed the finish line into next year?
teach me to trudge,
i can no longer soar.
i want to see souls heavy with blossom,
like the moon,
half of their fullness shrouded in the dark,
weighty and round and ripe
for discovery,
pregnant,
the top,
the sky,
the pivot.
pirouette
