---
i don't think the soul lives in our eyes...

I like knees that do not knock,
that do not stay...

My mother never taught me to tell lies.
She didn't cultivate vines behind my back, never...

I clump you with
the thickly spoken...

At night she wilts
in the same old chair...

My muse jumped ship, as I was sailing home.
I strung the lyrics of her creation into rope...

A spore contorted
on the floor, the porous...

Come, let's be dignitaries of Spring.
Let's toss innumerable red bottles...

I'm sitting on my bed tonight,
studiously pressing orange play-dough...

Once, I thought I'd leave a place and find myself.
I arrived, wrapped myself in sand...

I am orange on the inside.
The orange of a sunrise...

Orange lover on my lips,
whispers of sunlight...