158. Haiku: On survival.

If I am living
in the belly of the wolf
where does that leave you?

157.

I have no honey, nor
confessions.
How can I
call someone darling
without the taste of your name
in my mouth?

156.

I have not been sleeping
again. When I do,
I see white houses, the lake,
storms. I touch the tops
of trees. I am here, there.
Here.

155.

Say the sea has a name
outside of language,
and I am afraid
to be the last one
to speak it.

154.

The first man I fell in love with
was married yesterday.
The weather was humid,
I wrote my grocery list,
and did not lose sleep.
Number all the lines
and bury them in the yard.
Something about this
isn't working out.

There are things I must say
before I become too old
and hardened.
I notice the way light twists
across the surface of the lake,
I'm still afraid of distance,
sometimes, want to smell like lilacs,
and find home in a human
body.

I can sit on this for days
and only tell you
one-eighth of what I intended.
I miss New York,
and being a stranger.
I have sandpaper edges
and I'm sorry for that,
but it's only when looking at me
sideways, and I don't want anyone
who looks at me sideways.

When is the last time
we were over the moon?
Built a goddamn rocket ship
and strapped ourselves in?

When is the last time
we had an excuse
not to run?

153. November.

My bowl of soup
and someone
else.

152.

Perhaps
the best and most honest
thing would be
to not mind
if a person scared the hell
out of me.