Writing

Cast Iron

We're finding security in this
finding home I suppose and safety in numbers that don't
add up right even when I play them with inexpert chords and
whisper secrets on ancient desks this is
life again, life for real and you are my...secret this week
and I can still dream can't I, even without you and even
hating you I can still love you through my fists this is not my
home any more this is my lost place my
secret cave with ice drippnig from the roof.

I'm so tired and my fingers are numb from spending too many hours
out of the universe and into the cold, this is
long paragraph day and poetry means
'no inverted commas'.

Spanish accents are my new ideal and I'm practicing
rolling my rs in front on the mirror each morning.
Sitting on my hands through lunch time, this is no place to
hate everyone around you or to
stab at your soul with a cast iron conker.

We're working on it.

<-- back