Blades of Grace

I wake up each morning desperate for another body. instead, the house cools

with blue windows. my lone carpet, my humidifier. what I’d give to touch

another spine, a hand, to sing into a temple. there is a cap on the world now,

so I unscrew a jar of peanut butter & dip a spoon back into my mouth. touch

and go. taste and swallow. sweet blades of grace. I mean grass. what are words

but soft patterns, routine? I swing my legs beyond the bed. I read: torch, tooth, touch.

crouch, crawl, crater. cranium, crash, cracker. I twist my mouth into shapes and perform

consonants and vowels, my voice creaky & loud for nobody. just daylight, a touchstone

way of measuring time. the sky softens me with yellow. the sky softens, & I am soft.

soothed. every day, I go beyond the bed only to make more typos. grace, grass. touch,

torch. I brush the jade plant with the back of my hand. I flash my teeth into an open

mirror. tired, desire stares back. outside, the world swells with rain, emptied of human touch.