A hard nub of time, a divot of wire,
a catch, a place to rest, something to push back
against the hunger of my hands.

I feel the birds inside of me flying laterally across the tide.  Silent.

Your fingertips cajole the brittle
fuel of my blood.  These ragged bones
are vaporous and ready.
It is a quick fuse to hell or ecstasy.

Mumbled gutter mouth, fumbled fingers dropping the knife
already found slickened.  All too soon blooming mercurochrome eyes.
Bright sun shining, blinking clouds.  How many years is it now,
7 x 7, who the fuck made mirrors so fragile?

I’d like to cancel my reservation.
I would like to talk to you.  I’ll write you a note.  I’ll take a powder.
Would you slow dance to fake plastic trees?
I want to know when it is okay to not get back up.




.

I can feel my lungs unfolding
in the box of my chest, there is no
consent. This wind cries
through the corners.

I wish my mouth was mild,

a yellow rose, a May morning.
I would sift through your
petals, lick your collar bone,
remember the thorns.  It is soft,
the blood you draw in these early hours
of dew. Does it matter who grabs the
knife first? Can you measure the loss?

How many times have you

been in love? My heart breaks
every day, isn’t that the same thing?

There is this pain that will not allow

me anything beautiful, I know there
are words to evoke, but I am not whole
with this desire.  I want to thank you.
I want to write something everyday
that you will like. It already hurts and
I know this little about you.

I pack peanut butter and jelly sandwiches

for lunch, or in this case apricot preserves.
They are misshapen things, wounded.
The bread absorbs the sweetness until
saturated like gauze, a wound not ready
to heal, seeping. I remember trees
heavy with nostalgia. I remember being
jealous of the light that found you.

.