There's something in my closet. Its raspy monster breath makes my curtains flutter at night. I tell my mom, but she says it's just the sound of the wind whispering secrets to the moon. There's ... [+]
How Yosemite can fitwithin these four fragile walls,stretched across the bedspreadwith hip bone peaks pointingheavenward. You wake to dawn's open-window woodnote, ribcage canyon yawning underconifer air, ridges kissed by mistedbreath and lips of florid morning.How you can trace each trail, each thick white-water and thin snow creek scar, by fingernailand still lose yourself like a boyscout between the ponderosas. How Yosemite can fit in the bathtub and the two-seaterthat sheds its leather like pine needlesbut never in your arms, neverlong enough to hear the chasmicecho of your heartbeat return