Blueprints.

I peer through the eaves now and then,

through the fallen beams of afternoon tea. 
I find a message from a secret self,

an intimacy too private to speak of. 

My soul hangs from nails

and flutters in the unsound framework

like deserted blueprints,

like bed sheets in an open window. 

My hair is tangled in the latticework.

My fingertips are stained with ink.