takautumia.

the first thing you have to understand is that there aren’t actually any bars.

there never are on the things that really keep us caged.

sight, however, is an unreliable thing. 

the second thing is that being homeless doesn’t mean you don’t have a home. 

it just means you lost it somewhere along the line.

keys get stolen. things happen. and sometimes your Somewhere slips through your fingers and gets trundled away by the current before you have a chance to white-hanky the river to a dual for deed and title. 

the third thing involves rock collectors. 

in our experience, an interest in fossilization generally indicates a tendency in the geologist to not consider the eras from which they collect quite so ‘bygone’ as others might. 

so, now.

Sorella still sees phantom metal cylinders on passing windows sometimes. 

she knows she doesn’t live in a basement anymore, 

but shell-shock is weird

and her nature abhors repetition. 

The Often Orphan used to have a castle of his own; a castle by the sea. 

and yet, his name still remains appropriate. 

the point is that what is had can be lost can be found again, 

but the back and forth of it all gets really harrowing, 

so he doesn’t especially enjoy talk regarding ownership of property of late.

Mildred’s rocks are known, and Mildred’s rocks are famed. 

this does not mean that Mildred’s rocks are loved or liked or even dead. 

but Mildred is smarter than she looks, and she’s figuring out how to play Pandora properly. give her time, and she’ll get it right. 

in the mean time, the less fear you show the rocks, 

the less they’re likely to bite.

panning for gold - ben sollee

having kept faith

the sea is my church, 

and i haven’t been to worship in almost six months.

haven’t been able. 

my legs can’t span the distance to the sand where i used to work out the knots that tend to grow in things, when you live;
they’re a little stuck, of late

in the lonely kind of concrete that goes on for miles but doesn’t pulse with use

rather, cracks from salt and weather...

though your name, my holiest love, is still in all my passwords. 

i fell into this house the way one falls up wet wooden stairs -
with surprise. not without bruising. thinking ‘better up than down.’ 

i meant to in the way you mean to marry after widowhood;

which is to say, i didn’t really mean to at all. 

there’s a monster here who doesn’t know he’s monstrous, 
doesn’t mean to be

a sad little creature whose nature is a wonder even to himself

and who still hasn’t gotten over the daily shock of looking in the mirror. 

when we bow our heads at dinner, i pray instead that he be allowed ignorance

or that he might at least forget about the mirrors. 

when you are sitting at the table like this, palms open, 

a certain opening of the heart is expected. 

yet, closed i remain. two seasons have passed, and still i am no convert. 

captive’s syndrome does not take to the sort of soil i carry within, 

and i sport no blossoms of love for the ways of the place i continue waking up to. 

i’ve begged you more than once to come collect me, 

and it’s not that you haven’t tried. it’s not time yet. i know this. but here i stay, 

on your temple floor. devoted. anticipating. 

dear my saviour, dear my love

come take me home. 

young bride - midlake