He does not shout. He charts.
Where treaty lines once hung like old nets,
he inks the deep, the dark, the yet-unmade.

Huddled on the cat’s blanket,
hyenas crying through the night.

Scribbled notes regretting tea,

I loved the tales Luke told me of starving writers,
and the sacrifices they made following their hearts.

She has a way of tilting your head
as if lining up a thought.

I try
not to think
about my daughter’s
condition
when I
hug her

I tell you my heart is breaking
but the heart has four chambers
and is not shaped like a heart at all

No, no one is who they think they are,
nor what we think they are, either:
the demon inside is thinking it
and you can’t tell him.

Like one of those horses
on the carousel

going round and round in circles
sliding up and down a pole

Everything is moving. I have to remind myself
it’s a flat canvas and behind it a wall that’s solid
as I am.