I took on the journey the salt from my eyes
to tend my wounds and flavor soup.
I took a basket and kept filling it
with mushrooms and stones.
I emptied myself as I walked through days.
I used my feet and my hands.
Sometimes my words were stones.
They said less than what I meant or fell through holes.
I am working on finding my heart again
after I left it buried. It comes out of its grave
and clogs my throat with roots and dirt.
Even when I’m building my house
I will always be alone.

What are you looking for?