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for my daughter, who sees...When my therapist asked if my baby kept me grounded in real life,
when my therapist asked how we lived at home,
she lives in the landscape of my brain-
a war with no un-broken heart,
lovers washing up
on an endless sea
she lives without fear, the trembling touch of hand to hand,
she is part of me and mine
like a cat in the dark she sees my backwards worship,
that today we will climb on the bed,
lie with our feet under the heat of the dog
with our blankets nested
a house that was a homeMy crazy neighbour is off her meds,
having a party which her husband does not attend, there is
smoke filling the hallway and women who have drank
enough to allow their stomach to hang out the bottom
of their shirts, nails red-tipped and heavy-lidded
My neighbour throws a party to set up a crib in the
apartment they said they would vacate in December,
her baby does not show yet
and when I slide down the stairs I can feel her
hating me and the little girl wrapped in my arms,
how we are moving in a month, from a house to a home
and she cannot follow to a place she refuses to know.
the bookwe are lovers
in the crosshairs
the reams of papers, unnamed, nestling
against each other, perfect-bound
unnumbered, we are poets touching
brains or hearts or voices
that never say the same thing twice -
the definition of insanity:
not being able to function
in society, but we are sitting next to you
on the bus, talking to ourselves
in our heads.
the unfortunate side effects..I can't breathe and my limbs are
pins and needles, I can't breathe in,
just out and out until the world
spins black dots and your voice sounds tinny
and far away - you hold your half of the conversation
like an anchor
to call me home, convince my lungs to love my heart
to love my brain and the small person in my ear, saying
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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