I fear we are yelling through walls. 

Sweet absolution muffled by plaster and wood.

 Reconciliation lost if we cannot punch through.

The very beat that pushes blood through your veins

reverberates in the floor, and I remove my shoes to

feel closer to you. I would lay there but they will not

let me. This much I know…

For they are carpenters and masons – builders

with bricks and boards and convention. They fear

contact. They fear skin and sweat and understanding.

And so they build…

I stare at a blank screen and don’t know where to start.

There is far too much inside

and so much I want to say that I don’t even know how

(which is rare for me.)

I am maker of lists, and I write them:

Loss,

Frustration,

Apprehension,

Tension,

Sadness,

Anger.

…the list seethes, with no interesting way to release a single one.

.

‘It would all be fixed,’ I thought. And yet I realize now

there is still so much to fix.

I am sculpture…

Years of dirt and grime removed only to find that there are many cracks.
I don’t know where to start.
No ‘Pieta’, no ‘David’

… more like the clay workings of a grade-schooler and that I must accept.
I am “Ashtray for Dad on Father’s day.”