Morning curls steam from the kettle –
bright whistle shivering the air. I lift a tea bag, light as a whisper,
pinched by my fingers like a moth –
frail wings of mesh and dust.
The bag plummets into the cup, leaves unfurling,
inked tendrils darkening the water. A cloud blooms,
brown and honeyed, but unseen in the swirl: billions of plastic particles,
shattered constellations slipping past my lips.
A bottle cap rattles on the counter, its blue shine a sharp contrast
to the dull beige of a bread bag. I press a finger to its ridge,
ribbed like coral, etched with faint oil. The cereal box liner
crinkles in the corner – a brittle sigh. This plastic world sneaks in,
smooth, persistent, forgettable. It clings to my toothbrush,
lines my shampoo bottle, sleeks my keyboard like a quiet sheen of rain.
I drink my tea. It hums in my throat, small warmth rising. The cup is ceramic,
but my tongue carries the memory of plastic – tiny ghosts
swimming behind my breath, tangling themselves in my bloodstream,
fragile as moth wings, yet impossible to escape.
I think of communion wine, crimson and bitter,
meant to cleanse but curling instead around plastic ghosts,
eternal and unwelcome. I swallow them like prayers –
seeking grace through particles that refuse
to break.

The famulus wasn't a rich man—one doesn't
grow wealthy, as a wizard's assistant, it's true.
He spent his days stooped over tomes,
researching the means for his master's spells
though he'd surely never cast one for himself.

His nights he spent brewing potions and dyes
all from receipts that his master had written—
his hands were dyed yellow from crottle lichen,
everywhere that the ink stains didn't bedew;
this one for health, this one for youth,
though he'd surely never take one for himself.

When his master took an apprentice, the famulus sighed,
and took in the young lad's laundry,
in addition to sweeping all the rooms of the tower.
And when the master was too busy to teach,
the famulus taught the apprentice his lessons,
correcting his pronunciation of the spells,
adjusting the flourish of his hands,
though surely he'd never cast one for himself.

And when at last, the master died, the famulus wept,
and the apprentice found himself master of the tower,
the iron keys left to him in the master's will.
But the apprentice knew that he was still too young,
and had too much learning left before him.
"Dear friend," the young lad said,
"this place has been your home longer than I've been alive.
I cannot tend it as well as you. Please, take these keys,
and all the master's books and spells, and use them for yourself."

"Oh no," the famulus cried, "I am not a wizard.
I cannot cast his spells or cantillate his wardings.
I do not have the spark of power!"
"You have the knowledge, more than I have myself,"
the young man replied. "There is no one more fit
to be the master's heir than you."

And so the famulus found himself in a somber robe
of fuscous black, still stooping over tomes,
still distilling herbs,
caretaker of the master's tower,
and in time he took on apprentices of his own,
passing on the knowledge he possessed,
though he never cast a single spell.

All the beautiful clothes
In a pile on the floor
Some beginning to wear
A thread loose, color fading
A piece of hair
Of living human beings

They watch and listen to the jazz
Look closer
Prettiness gone, fading too
Eyeglasses, teeth, possessions
Become just cracks in the sidewalk

Another time, suitcases piled high, near the tracks
No one young, one newly born         
No one too small
Rusty, dusty, orange and wrinkled
This way.

You could see spattered young flesh 
New cells still forming
Lost before they began
You would have to see the beginning
At its end.                    

I run to the earth’s furthest edge, whispers chase me -
"Please come back. You are loved."
I crawl home, only to find myself alone.

Asking the air, "Where is that sacred promise?"
Where do people like me go?

I do what it takes.
I face the day.

Where do people like me go?

My old lover once said, "If heaven is real, you are just as worthy of it today as you were yesterday."
A lie he so shrouded in truth.

Still, his words lit my mind like neon signs guiding me through my darkest nights.
I never told him how loved I felt, or how his false comfort became my religion.

Where do people like me go?

I am sick yet searching, haunted by thoughts too dark for daylight. I wonder if heaven is real or if hell is the echo of my own mind.

Where do people like me go?

The work is done, but the cracks still show.
I paint over them again and again, but the emptiness bleeds through.

I don’t know where people like me go.

He only speaks with birds
when dawn animates the morning fog
or the day’s last cicada screams,
this ragged vagabond with tear-stained eyes
who holds a newspaper like a wall against the world.
He talks to sparrows
who speak in constant circles,
tie his tongue in cat-cradle knots.
He will reveal what they say for you
the way time reveals truth
or parting clouds reveal blue sky,
words spinning off his tortured tongue
until his spoken sounds linger
like a song stuck in your head
months after the last sparrow
has flown away home.

Later, you’ll whisper softly in noon’s heat
to the crows nesting in your yard,
cushion yourself with pine needles
as you wait for summer’s action
to pause for an hour or two
so you can share news of the world
with the pair of them. They’ll listen,
polite as any well-bred couple
cornered by a stranger
with a story they don’t quite understand
but are willing to entertain,
although when you finish
their only answer will be silence,
thick as mud in a new-dried creek bed.
They’ll swagger away, rattling comments
you can’t quite catch.
You must give up contentment
to speak with the birds.

What if deep orange and blue red flames
fire-danced on a wintery wintry night?
Last night at three below, a single malt
warming my throat, I watched fire sprites
twirling, pirouetting, arching up,
a ballet of bursting embers sparking,
chainéing, rising through the chimney chute,
sautéing, tiptoeing, silently twirling
into Van Gogh’s starry night.
My throat, my toes, my soul now warmed,
I dreamt of you, a balleting spark
uplifting my heart en pointe
in our pax de deux across the winter sky.

Dusty, dusty, dusty! Have I got
the job for you! No doily-lace hands,
clean teeth, wide smile. Keep ‘em.
No pearls—I want rope
still smoldering on your palms
when we sit shaking at the table.
I’ll take your campfire smoke
like bitter coffee from a chipped tin.
Let the heat plaster my hands
in something rich. There’s work
for you here. Mustangs and mares!
A whole herd of them running
wild and tossing grit. Last seen
chewing up the watering hole
and kicking at the jail bars.
Scat, shoo, skedaddle, vamoose—
Payment guaranteed! Sit aside
the piano playing itself
when the streets turn tangerine
to plum. I know a song you’d like.
The callus rasp over bristle, sand
brushed from collar to crease. 
I’m the whiskey in your glass.
You’ll stay a while longer,
won’t you?