and Day Ten

early wooden shapes       breathing,

something like                      combustion

  pensive charting,   notes about your fingers

                        muscles,

colors    remembering

directions i would have taken

            were i not shadowing you

and how to keep                       from ever getting there

bottom words,  cartoonish  filling up

  with   &  full   on      how i can’t

ever

hear my    isolation

   without remembering

certain times of       year, certain     calendars

so random

aimless

whatever

i could never               fit in with tumbleweeds

that put        in me

            people i forgot

            places, burning & edged in teeth

            the last way that i ever saw         a man, smiling

& swinging movements, so      deceitful

i never trusted back and forth

            until        opposites became

 the only       sentences

        i could    double check

having to stop             exactly right, here

            so as to

 not let happiness              overstay    your boundaries

without     letting go  (letting go of origins), you

      and the things we make up,

                                              we are like           buses

lots of them

in rows,     no obvious movement

just similarities             of what people assume           about us

your face         once more, too big

                       

and a lot   or   a little bit     

         of   never looking     until

    my address   can match   my name