I want to make a poem like this

Sunday Morning

I waste. The water
looks red sometimes
as if it were your hair
or a penny-scar
from when the tree
let you go. Red beads
on the grass blades:
we expected as much.
We were taught
to play, to love
the honed thing after
death. When you
touched yourself
I was alone.
The doorway held
your father while
your mother made
the stair. Once
I left in the middle
of the night; I needed
to go home. Somewhere
the land is full
of what I felt
we needed.

hunt oil mit

therapy

shangri-las

say key hex

fun with numbers

intriguing collection of number maps, games, and gadgets

pink as i

am pink

windows without wings
scissors sawdust
skin with thistles
and ghosts
and teeth. Tethered
thing where three
poles meet. Glitter
eye winking
in the liquid heat

kindling

two
dead things

when
did you become
so lonely?

one thing could
fit inside
the other: mouse, bird-
wing. glossy black
tail to feather

because I am
afraid of breaking
things

wick quick
to flame

everywhere
there is water
water

a body in the hand
(seed spread
through secret
channels)

everytime
someone is kind
to me I feel
like breaking