words that are leaving;

plaster, pink chips that we'll
swink over
baby's breath and orange juice like laughter,
turns snow into rain into water.
shingles, on a roof of dimes,
are tiny circles of playful games in clay
a rug i fell in love with, loved it onto the floor.

an old thought, licking
salt til i'm sick and enjoying a hue of blue
very few see. a splash of lemon rind as a smile.
i'm a sand star, crisp contour, cream cheese icing
layered: shirt, scarf, sweater, shade tolerant under
persimmon bark, beetles born in a breath!

you're too big of a little feather for me to not wish to catch,
to put in my mouth, to pretend you're alive and fly on your own.
even a peak, the sun a star, I'll tie my shoes and find a pillow, a pocket,
feet freezing, Morse code fluttering under the sweep of my tongue,
say this: I'm a typewritter knotting my tooth to a string
on the door.
be a bloodied mess when you're done, like you are alive, like
you were once
alive
attached to a bird.