I slip out the back door
steeped in stories
that need the rhythm of my feet to coalesce
in the edges of places; I pass
weaving truths into tales
and find my way back to what is.
The church on the corner was letting out for the day
I skirt the crowds tears filling my eyes
in my stories I come to close
there are no words for some
others spill from me in silent speeches
these words fill me
I am left knocking on the door to an empty house
warm bricks against my hands.