What holds (26 November)

Are these broken or breaking?

Inhale first from this basket
fresh-gathered tears plucked
new yesterday, a wilting harvest.

Or touch uncracked glass,
its hollow form whispering
a single note before it fragments

into sieved and severed stories:
unwilling revelations
unburied with a sidelong brushstroke.

Words descend from aching place,
staining paper with the trails
of unvarnished truth.

Then these homes, where what is
within goes without, all the
pronouned pieces displaced

by the breaking: marble shatters
too, you simply missed the lines
marking the coming separation.

A small request (27 October)

What’s broken that cannot be fixed?
What hollow existence for words that
Cannot, will not be shared
But are squirreled away?

Because though our words start off as us
Newborn onto the page our
Helpless creation yet to feel
Life’s scars and pangs,
Scattering thoughts awaiting
Clean attire still retain
Traces of us.

We lose them to others
But not ourselves:

Our words gain strength,
Meaning, power, vitality
Life itself
From being read:
Our writing suffocates,
Must breathe
Through you, through them and

Speak its existence.