i have drawn falling girls down the margins, their triangular party-dresses slant, tilted with wind. i have drawn dismantled windows, or windows with splintery frames and glasses that don't match, perforated in endless ellipses, mapping trails to mystery places off the page.
i have been reading and writing you with all my attention, intention, intoning you to frame your newness. your unknown book-ness. your blank spine that tells nothing.
i build a dangling gate, to slip through in the night, to access the curious crooked space you populate. the latch is rust-colored and squeaks and flakes and was never taught to catch. A and B doesn't equal anything. all letters spill up like sparks. the subtle scent of sweat that collects between words. the entire alphabet splashed up like a crystal film of slippery possibilities, pulsing, palpable, liquid friction, glistened over the sky.
nice try.
.
