Teaching And Writing Are Separate,

Like Our Parents Always Told Us Not To Like Firefighters Warn Against We're Playing Games And Making The Rules Up As We Go We're Matching Warmth To Warmth Starting Fires Burning Wishes Into Our Skin We're Hidden Holding Forbidden Lights We're Children Whose Fathers Have Never Taught Never Touch But We're Finding These New Flames We Smother At The Sound Of Footsteps.

Sometimes There’s No One To Listen To What You Really Might Like To Say At A Certain Moment. The Paper Always Listens.

Anyone Who Says, “here’s My Address, Write Me A Poem,” Deserves Something In Reply. So I’ll Tell You A Secret Instead: Poems Hide. In The Bottoms Of Our Shoes, They Are Sleeping. They Are The Shadows Drifting Across Our Ceilings The Moment Before We Wake Up. What We Have To Do Is Live In A Way That Lets Us Find Them.

Later Our Dreams Begin Catching Fire Around The Edges, They Burn Like Paper, We Wake With Our Hands Full Of Ash.

Let Me Peer Out At The World Through Your Lens. (maybe I'll Shudder, Or Gasp, Or Tilt My Head In A Question.) Let Me See How Your Blue Is My Turquoise And My Orange Is Your Gold. Suddenly Binary Stars, We Have Startling Gravity. Let's Compare Scintillation - Let's Share Starlight.