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The hills do not forget the weight of our footsteps. They breathe where drums once slept, beneath grass sharp as winter teeth. I was taught the dead stand just behind the visible: not ghosts, but listeners, their mouths full of smoke and prayer. At dawn, the elders said, the spirits test your shadow. If it will not answer the sun, you are already halfway gone. I saw a woman rise from red dust, her braids threaded with lightning. She carried a bowl of water that reflected no s

We rise, we coffee, begin the routine, pricked with flashes, typically, of the recent past. There is a filter, that eliminates the mundane, from the priceless - which become the cornerstones. These moments, the poignant ones steel an emotion, free an event from extraneous clutter, brand themselves in the cerebellum. We are these memories. The eight-hour-thing over, insomnia kicks in, the curse starts the definer-reel rolling. The worst and the best flare through the

You said you’d haunt the places that you knew. I guess a lot of people feel that way. When shapeless, all the more so. But this house Is so imbued with you-ness in its walls (That pale vanilla paper that you chose, Those drapes that hang like frosted falls of mocha), And in its drifts of dust your sugary whims, Your shade would be dispersed, reduced, confused With memories, nostalgia. So you’ve gone To somewhere more anonymous, yet safe. And I will find you (knowing that a wr