when the wolves come home


(in which we go there, where nothing is waiting)

so i push open the blinds; i push hard, too

i push us into the thicket where we

defined ourselves,

mostly water and foamy bouquets

and some tastefully scattered thorns.



(in which we find everything waiting there)

you ask me one day about our definitions.

if i answered, you’d agree

we were ridiculous and young,

weren’t we?

i push open the blinds. i push hard.

i push too hard and you scream and push back

i don’t push hard enough and suddenly you’re unhappy, what are you, a teenager?

you’re impossible. i think it’s time we take everything into account.

(everything being:


foam bouquets

and tastefully scattered thorns.)


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