We learned to give him space, accommodate/his hours, leave the front door shut while he/slept.

I’ve never left that street named Winter,
where next-doors shared baked corn

Here: the bench where we wept for so many/births and deaths.

God, hear my muted screams.

That day I left a parcel at the post office that held 108 pages of my life, 795g of it, labelled and segmented and paperclipped

Another smashed window moved into the Rice’s old house

she sits in the hedge and types the air, looking busy,/
her seven-year-old wife gathers mud and sticks to brew soup,

a rumblethis breath would take our youthin daily mute moments setthem – in a row –before comrade, stranger, witness,parse each word with hefta soft succour of violencebalm of pain speech actaerate each and everyfifty minutes to one hourlong self-indulgent diatribesin vestibules, in officessetting our prefixes, suffixes, in a fixed row—of wrong and right and did… Continue reading for those of us who learned to speak in therapy

a bed, a pen, a tiredness.

No dead thing rises from this tomb: /
life itself comes pouring out