White Twigs

If I put my heart into the ground,
it would burst a spring for these roots.
But there won't be a burial for me.
I will rest upheld, like a nest
in the upturned clutches
and knuckles of branch.
I'll blend into the freckled leaves,
and in late autumn
when the wind goes,
there I'll be
my bones, white twigs
belonging to the trees.

I am like the static trees-

when the nautious ocean

makes the sky dry heave.

Keeper of Kites

He told me I was the keeper of Kites.
I looked down at the tangled swamp
of strings that hung from my fist.
There weren't colors at the ends of those knots.
There weren't sails to set to the wind.
I ran all of what I held to shreds.
Today I saw a gull fly
between the buildings above.
I cast my heart up and it sailed me home.