I am like the crickets under the drawbridge
in the way my legs just
don't work how legs should
In the way they just
swing
and creak and illuminate the night in the most obvious and obnoxious way.
I was the night once.
my body
smelled like riveted beads and oil canisters
and my vowels were over pronounced like the
m-OO-n.
I had shivers up my spine
until the words fluttered out of me and beat
themselves to death against and hand carved mailboxes full of explosives
and stamps from Paris.
I am not a drawbridge,
but a series of slender leaves left out in the sun to harden.
Come to me
and rap ever so lightly on my solipsist mind,step on my ivy, open the night like an inviting letter that smells like grandfathers and music boxes.
Would you light my walk into the bears' den.