I’ve fallen enough
To know
This is climbing
My Childhood
It’s crumbling
Aging unlike wine
Soon it won’t even exist
Food Allergies
Everything tastes yummy
Before it hits my tummy
зима (winter)
In every language
I understand cold
Fire, too
The meaning is not
In the sounds
So much as the actions
Writing Or Marriage?
Arranged words
Shared with the world
Where Is It?
Is it in the smoke
Before our vision
When we blow
In the words
On the page
Between the truth and the myth
In the water-worn bottle that
Washes up on the shore
Or just simply
In your eyes?
Blockage
Two years
Of stabbing myself
With a pen
Is what it took
To bleed ink
Onto the page
Instead of blood
