on climbing my spiral staircase at 9:46 pm on a December Wednesday

on climbing my spiral staircase at 9:46 pm on a December Wednesday

Watching battered, greasy ridges cut

deep in the wood banister �"

no, look at the lull, the gentle sway of

milky green tea, breathe mellow, corduroy

scent and try not to spill,

The single yellow lightbulb perched at the top of the stairwell

spills shadows all over the sprout-green sea.

Socked feet, coated in dust and threaded with dog hair,

pad up thirteen steps. I want my words to sleep with someone

the way Whitman’s sleep with me, tucked in the

stray hairs on my nape and hidden in the

creases of my

salt-stained pillow.