I live in a Russian nesting world,
Layer after layer after layer
Of thick shellac that veneers
A thinly disguised paper mache

I hear you knocking
I hear vain echoes reply
Who is it
Who is it
Who is it
Who is it

Then softly
My dear, ‘tis only I

But can I reply
To something I’m not sure I heard
What if it is just a bird
Cooing softly to his mate
Or various boral aggregating
What if it’s only the sound
Of paint drying that drives my thoughts
To your front curb
And kicks me there
With no way home

Have I ever regretted words
I didn’t say?
Yes,
Yes, I have.

-jenn