Bring in the bed first. Then the books. Then wait as long as possible before doing anything else. Go back to work. Sweep out
I sleep on emerald moss twigs and leaves. I am what’s left of what you brought here. Each day I eat little, then less
I’ve come from rooms rimed with memories, come with a heart refusing gone, come to sit until it succumbs to this insistent impermanence, chiseled
In the night, in the wind, I search the roadside for white feathers glued to a leather mask, but the weeds and burrs won’t