daffodil st.

i suppose i do not know who cares and do not care who knows.

i am hiding beneath the table in a Vermeer.

last night willem said, that i am the second weirdest person he has ever met.

i don't know where to direct this question which i have for 'my maker':


how can i function with a heart that is this unholy swollen?

how can i breathe when I have lain my lungs under His pillow?

how can i sleep when this voice has been wakened?

how can i walk when my mother's feet are failing her?

how to be wise when i unlearn everything i have known?

how to be cruel when to the crux i am soft as a moan?


weak with no suggestion of sea legs, porous as pumice or sponge

daffodil street and its hovering heat on that day that was so indecisive

until it broke into yellow and a shuffle two chess pieces in the grass

begging the question

of what gave me the notion

that i have a right to ask