ours is a house of books /
bound in leather and cardboard and cloth

nowhere /
is less mercy shown /
than in board games /
between brothers

your waking mind /
holds reality /
/
a tenuous membrane /
over pulsing dreams/

I am 
I am not my thoughts
I am not my mood
I am not my self
I am not
​I am

there's a point where all lines converge /
a place where all viewpoints merge /
all distances shrinking to nought /
the endpoint of all trains of thought

wake me /
with your calm breath /
on my neck /
gradually less calm

I like summer receding /
the birds fleeing /
the warmth letting go /
​the sun taking refuge

I was born on the day of the dead /
on a bed laid with coal /
not a saint nor a soul /
can remember a word that was said