build a lighthouse.
Count the tongues of every poet you’ve ever known.
Place a grand piano in a public space. Watch from a distance.
climb your lighthouse.
Make yourself into a town that doesn’t know you.
Run a load of dishes in the washing machine. Bleach.
Craft yourself a daughter. Make her out of golem. Thank the ground for what it gave you. If the ground says “no, you do not owe me anything,” it means that you do.
The next time someone walks into your living room or bedroom, pretend you are asleep.
Turn their untied shoe into a favor, into a conversation, into a life.
Take me back to the day that I went blind.
stand at the top of your lighthouse. burn the horizon into your eyes.
Goodbye.
April, 2014