climbing lots of stairs, and it was up and up the yard. I stopped, momentarily. I held my arm out in front of my face to touch the skin, to point to somewhere far away. But there aren't stars, in this part of America, like brilliant spots on the map, so brilliant that we can't see anything else besides our own deafening electricity.
climb a few more stairs. dust my knees in Begonias, bathed in shade. They would say, "how I love to keep staying here, the sun can't touch me, the moon can't touch me. Love and reproduce under lack of--" they write love letters in the dark, by candlelight, wearing sunglasses.

She didn't break a long stare. She refused to believe in what to wake up with out her. rippedupedness. I put foot in front of another, higher degrees, or extra crashed jeans in ice, grin, sip, please, another stretch up to a doorstep.
So rich.
So doctor.
So "help me, I've been climbing the lawn for hours now."
Just bearable. Just hear-able.
Pull me into living room of "I can feel that potato chip, I choked on it, I feel it down in my ribs," but really what you want to say is,
I woke up this morning
my guts rejecting what my heart wants so awfully.
becominganastoundingactress
you break into an attic, stuffy and a lot of unresolved heirlooms of memory. But still put arm next to arm, saying sorry if I touch you.
Foot in front of foot,
saying I need you to move-out-of-my-way.