Faith is the paperbag I breathe into when air is scarce.
The presence of holes is inconsequential.

I’ve taught myself to ignore misplaced light.
When I close my eyes, gumdrops taste like poppies.
I’m convinced when I spit, a field will bloom.

Red is a born-again color, but in the rain,
cheap fabrics bleed. It’s hard
not to get discouraged. On down
days, my tongue turns to mud.

You don’t know what it’s like to go fallow.
You worry about going lame.

In Sandbridge, I met a schizophrenic.
We moved into a room on stolen credit cards.
When we quarreled, I’d send Charlie
to the pier, demand he count seagulls.

Folded inside his suicide note, Charlie
left a white feather that smelled like salt,
lost buttons, and every color in the Crayola box.
He said he’d always loved me,
but couldn’t tally birds that kept moving
and all looked the same.