The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
My mouth blooms like a cut.
The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.