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.




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