I Found Hiding is a Darker Thing That Keeps Us.

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I found a phone that only rings in blacked noise.

I found myself in a friend’s jeans, then his hand.

I found my father asleep. I broke him into bread.

I found mother with a cock in her mouth. Laugh.

I found for the first time the ornament of tongue.

I found knowing is an attic fire that reclaims us.

I found myself, folded, gray, softer, focus on dead.

I found a finger in a jam jar. Loss is too full of itself.

I found my father’s knuckles tasted of hate, prayer.

I found him tongueless, ornamented in thick black.

I found him waiting in rooms made smaller by him.

I found this is the place where I throat my silence.

I found my son in a thicket. Half-thorned/throned.

I found bolt-cutters. I feel better now about mercy.

I found prostration. Still, now, I’ve not apologized.

I found all I’ve needed in the air’s nicked wounds.

I found all I’ve needed in a truck stop bathroom.

I found my want for crucifixion is how I make love.