Sometimes the wave inside my head
looks like a silent word, or like
a clean afternoon of California summer.
On those days I do art. I paint a haunted house,
gather all the wordlessness inside it,
and put a lock on the canvas.
Sometimes a lump in the throat
feels like a thousand unsaid words,
or like emotions on a stormy day by the pacific.
On those days I reach out to words. I transform
every part of my hollowness into a poem,
and try to make it look like
a glass mirror to seek my soul.