Where we ghost when we forget to while. Where we cover our tracks. Howl. Or how for a while . . . where we grip too tight, hold two minutes too long and ruin embrace. Where we shift and displace our haunt, where we cower, where we creep. Where we wish we could enact formula.



And our shift is a burl, tuft that shifts liftless to cower. A kitten in a gunny sack on the prowl. A lost key. A forgotten salt lick, ill maintained.

I wanted to begin again but when I held out my hand the binding slipped shut slipped shut and the twilight growled at noon and I knew the season was sinking in a draft not a howl.

dear deer 2

Where a road is a button, a mark impressed, a stiick shifted, a dot tied down with a thread. And fences are lanes that people walk through, they open gates, shift switches and walk through our front doors, fuck with home. Remake the front door. Shift arrows. TheĀ  forever-kids who yard and yard back/front/side – art and craft property to gripless. Hide and seek to let, to loose.

dear deer 3

And we fold and unfold and tumble down the stairs, mourn the mixtape.

We long for red thread that will bind us in to a furling linearity that we can call complete. So we can say: This is shadow.

A bounded leap, wrapped: complete