there is a peace in exposure
and a peace in silence.
and I still can’t discern
where I fit completely.
sometimes I  flit about town
with my paper point tongue
and become the trap for them.
other days I sit quietly

rearrange my stones
to surround pieces of paper
with words scribbled;
a symptom of caution

 
when people say they are superstitious,
they usually mean they
don’t walk under ladders
or keep broken mirrors,
or if you’re Russian,
put your purse or keys directly
on the table.
when I say it,
I mean that if I think
about something too long
it  grows legs
and walks out 

so I can see it better.

I begin to line the doors
with salt and brick dust;
the tub with black tourmaline
and smoky quartz. I
begin to line the bed with
kitchen knives and then
I begin to chant the
names of lives
I want to enter me.

“1/1/2017”