by allison linville
I am unwittingly cold
every night you have a hold on the doorknob.
Lamps offer light
wood convects to add warmth.
I cannot explain to you the morning,
in the morning.
Where emptiness of air
is the only thing that could fill you up.
descendent of thunder
wearing bolts of fabric.
I do not record that which I love.
Rain splatters down the fry pan
you exhale abruptly at the sparks.
Flowers puff into fire;
a new way to fold paper.
Static blows through treetops.
We are so accompanied by our worries.
Wooden spoons hit bottom.
So that your fingernail might cover the place you wish to be.