this language is futile.

one ( ha na )

i shut in.
the door locks left.


push the handled dark glass
on the fifth floor.
first right, remove your shoes
sharp left, reapply the shoes.

.
around the corner
in the first door
the key left then right, wait for the cockroach
to return to his peeled back paper room.
wait, for the smell of black mold
the close walls
to press you in, a deep swallow of home.

two ( dul )

everything here is funny.
i burst out
high collar strutting
alone.


three ( set )

When we are in love, we love the grass
and the barns, and the lightpoles and the small mainstreams
abandoned all night. -Robert Bly

since you, i am two doors slammed and deadbolted.

i excerpt the hours
my swollen eyed night rise of voice
the last time i threw myself
long breaths in your flannel shoulder,
the smooth brown stretch of your neck.

you held me away
arm's length and then a block, a city
i placed an ocean between us, the
won't look back entry point of our shared home
your eyes settling everywhere but on mine
and the distance,
my mouth hinging down on the words i flew at you
fast.

i admit
half of us wrong
more.

dark shut into this short hallway of home and two
suitcase-shaped boxes of self
i press my hand between my thighs
fingering your teethshaped scars
in my shoulder

i breathe aloud.

i forward my interest towards you
blue smears of your face find their way to me
alone in a city of everyone but you.

and you have stopped listening
but i look for you still
your absence pulling down on the
sound of my single footsteps
home.