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In my quiet I imagine there to be open land and space.  

Wintry wonderland, where the tree branches reach like 

fingers or veins into the sky, creating shapes of woman's

legs and letting you know how old the earth is.  I want to

kiss them and run my fingers along the bark, the dry skin

no one wants to touch.  If inside such quiet you should find

me sitting in my snow pants on the roots sucking in all the

cold air until my lungs and nostrils burn like lungs and nostrils

are supposed to burn when the cold is dry, dry, dry.

I imagine there's more to life than just waking up and feeling like

you're just another day.  Poetry just in keeping your eyes open

and staring into clouds, waiting for birds to come out of the pillows

and flex their deceptively solid wings, their bones so hollow you could

whistle music through their joints and pretend you're a kite on a string

while you swing and sing with the windy catches and dips overlooking

God's vastness and valleys that remember you to be so big even though

you make out to see yourself so small.

I feel like Bobby, want like Claire and cry like Jonathan.   My fingers are 

longer than God made them out to be and if I stretch myself out far enough

then I can tap your shoulders and then you'll know that I was standing there.