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.

.

Your shoulders gather freckles.

I know where to find potsherds, there is a place

by the river where abandoned adobe melts.
Polychromed geometry discarded near the

broken bodies of trees and the wire strung from

rusting iron crosses set to resist the siege of flood water.

The light sings through the fabric of your dress,

throwing curves into silhouette.

I know where the illegal dump is, the road veers

left but if you turn right onto the dirt road you’ll

get there. Look for the signs both for and against it.

Three friends died when they couldn’t make the turn.

I could find a home in the air of your smile.

Every day I wrap desire in a new package,

I get tired of dissecting middens for voyeuristic

pleasure but sometimes there is ketchup

when you need it.

.

I kept your lipstick print on a demitasse

for years. It has faded or is gone, I haven’t looked
at it in a while. I’m not sure who you were.

The house is full of small hermetic rooms that I
never enter. There are trails that lead to safety.
I’m tired of reading stories in the dust.

The spiders bring the spring, they are hungry
after a long winter sharpening their desire.

The flowers have come out everywhere. They
are not shy with their sexual intentions. I am not
as bold as the rain; I will not touch their softer skin.

It is a picture postcard stuck in the frame
of a mirror, the season doesn’t pass, it is a
memory no longer noticed.





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