Down in the Parlor

my ankles creak

on the sore steps

– whole years passing through

as the bones walk down my body

and in the room corner

– above the burial ground

my soul settles,

hovering up and up, resting

near to the spider’s nests,

where every lie of my life hangs

where even the oil lamp

averts its eyes

Breathing the Same

You would touch me,

between the crevasses of the couch

between the small cracks and

between the cushions,

and we would roll

over and over each other, falling past lint and nickel

warm, invisible

before landing together at the bottom, in the dark,

and when we did

the both of us were breathing the same and My God,

My God…