It's a Billie Holiday kind of day.

There was a patch of fog in the shape of a man
out the kitchen window this morning.

Then he was gone.

I'm trying to recall a dream Sinthia told me, then forgot her words
as her voice had traveled through me and I became lost at staring at how her thick black hair moving about her face as she moved clearing dishes
it was a classic clanking dishes sound and if I closed my eyes and multiplied the sound iin my head, patrons would appear. A man with a tan coat and He has a mustache - the color of clay and wet sand.

You Forest So Easily
Trying to block the sun
hand in your hat, parts of explosed skin becoming magic
a bag

lungs these and fist beside your feet.
Know this

is my gift to you: a cracked window pane
on a 30 below blizzard in a T.V. static glowed livingroom.


And then on one pre-wake Thursday morning, You tiptoe in, take a bowl out of my cabinet, pour yourself a bowl of ice cubes

and leave a soak stain on my seat.

Imaginary Incohearent conversations with you

Remember when we were young? I say.
I don't want to talk about December 19th. you say.
There was an ice storm, I say.
They are so appealing from behind curtains, you say.
The city pool was ten minutes by bike, I say.
I'm not listening. I'm busy listening to sad songs with my backpack on, you say.
I wear your sounds from this chair, I say.
The sounds were so big once, full of red colors.
Hey, I'm the one who brings inflatables to the party, I say.