an untitled poem
sometimes, I think I read so much that I hear words with my eyes closed they narrate the way I make my tea the way the sun, dappled, dances on the wooden table as I teach the way the wind blows through my bones with such certainty and such uncertainty the words hide behind my eyelids and scratch at my fingertips see us write us tell the stories you have to tell the words are not my friends, but they are not like other things ones that lurk in the pit of my stomach that sew up the cockles of my heart that run around at night when shadows are not shadows words are sustenance. they may not always taste like much but they keep me and life sometimes, I think I read too much, but then I keep on writing.