When the world turned it's face from mine ,she did not.
In quiet rooms where hope grew thin,she planted light.

Not with words,
bt with worn -out hands
That laboured past their breaking
To gather pieces of me
That I even had left behind.

She stood
Not loud ,but firm,
Whispering my name to God
When no one else remembered it.
She lit candles in her heart
And called that hope.

I saw her meets floors
More than her eyes met sleep
Heaven knows
What it means to be held
By a soul that bleeds but never breaks.

So when I speak of love,
Know that I mean her.
That woman who made home,
Out of scarcity,
And miracles
Out of me.

I wanted to look to you like I was dancing
But the bugs on my bark weren't moving enough
I kept reaching skyward and praying for wind
     Never comes to a call, does it?
You could trace each fissure on my surface--why don'chya?--
     Find stories and runnels for flowing sap
Saw me off at the hip, maybe. See what jokes my rings have to tell

I'm tired of waiting for wind; I want to dance (I think?)

I wanted to look to you like I was thoughtful
So I sliced off a sheet of cyan and I robbed the sky
You called me "thief." ******' mean
     Always reaching for silver, aren't we?
Try to touch irises, press pupils. I've never been further than now
     Stories all end, so I'm told. But this one? Still going
Hacked apart, trying to show you my pieces. Chunks. Rough mince

So I stole again to pay the sky back. Ex nihilo, nihil fit
I can pour from empty, because I'm magic, baby!

I wanted to want to see you in Springtime
But we can't scrape Winter off our faces
     Sling me a flat stone that I can send spinning
Slapping across the water's surface
Did I hit the opposite bank? You could stitch together separate days
     if you only had the sinew and a proper needle
Blown apart by wind and explosive expecting. Chunks. Rough mince

I'm tired of waiting for wind. I'm tired of wanting to dance (I think?)
Not magic--well--not the kind that isn't bone and blood and skin
That's the sort of magic that doesn't exist.

There is a robot in my pocket,
it's smart enough to design rockets,
but just gives the forecast,
and knows all about my past,
it even works with no socket.

Si no me encuentras donde solía esperarte,
no pienses que me fui;
tal vez me perdí buscándote en mí mismo.

He sido un mapa sin rutas,
una brújula herida por el norte de tus ojos,
y aun así, caminé.
Caminé con la esperanza
de que el eco de tu voz
algún día me guiara de vuelta.

No quise ser eterno,
solo inolvidable.
No quise que me amaras para siempre,
solo que no me olvidaras tan fácil.

Si no me encuentras,
búscame en las cosas pequeñas:
el silencio entre dos canciones,
el respiro antes de una lágrima,
el temblor leve cuando alguien dice tu nombre.

I don't think I earned my name
When I was born, my mother sighed
               the second she
           was finished crying
Saturate the atmosphere and mix me in
              with molecules.
Invisible. I'm only air.
At least until I am exhaled.
                   And then?
Carbon monoxide. Waste product.
            Respiratory excreta.

I don't think I want my name.
And, even though I love this place,
                    the fact remains
                    it don't love me
                  and I can't make it...

               They still get bored so fast.
         And I can't tell if I can blame them.
                     But it used to last
                        a little longer.
           Longer strides and clearer eyes.
        Aching less from years' less crying.

Ache with me? I'm begging you.
Stay awhile or call me crazy. Just don't keep me caught
                           on this line.
No more warm or candied lies, no jangling nerve, anxiety
or brutal, ****** truths out hunting.

I know I am not interesting, but mercy on me please.
                   don't leave me yet or tire...
But, no, I am uninteresting--the gravest crime of our day.

I don't think you know my name.