I wish I had a job,
just for the sheer joy of motoring back
through twilight, as the streets lighten
windows down? volume up?
maybe going home to pieces of me
little toes, shoes as long as my palm
I will love you as my own, for
you are mine and I will be yours.
(you will make me home)
I have slowly and sadly fallen in love
with this mystery, this hollow self
gently punctured and bled out, gaping.
tuck your fingers into my painted palms, I know
I burn too hot/sandy, but I would clasp you
in this fiery ring. this is our disaster.
I have destroyed you, beautifully.
what do you know? (me?)
could you speak plainly, straight up, shooter
but this stirs up so much, history
is our deep d[anger]. I miss
the compainionship, the very idea –
would you speak up or will it always be I?
this year-long rattle in my heel, finally free
oh, little stone! where did you come from?
did you chip off a Czech cobblestone? A Parisian stair?
Maybe you found me outside that coffee shop in Boston.
There’s a streak of green on your side – is it Viennese?
Perhaps it’s Guilford moss, or from the walk in the woods around Oxshott.
you have walked with me, far,
I wish I could put you back.
some people just leave
broken skin, broken bones,
but I did the breaking while you whispered
and steeled my heart. Me, endangered,
and you giving me bloody pages/poems, dark landline calls
and never forgiving the nothing I did.
arms draw out
in black, which soaks up light safely
and leaves bright contrast in limestone
I rock, smoothing the surfaces across each other until
A touch of acid and gum, the image fizzles
washed away carborundum
resin dust could give you cancer. So could asphaltum.
but etched in stone is family.
curled around you, oddly intimate
maybe you love me? I want to keep you
in the hollow of my hip, leaning
so tightly-soft together; I pull my fingers
down your slate-grey spine and you arch
little paw-toes uncurl
lamp-slit eyes in the dark
maybe you know the way we are falling
the way that I must sneak
with turned-in nails, cringing against
the wall of you. there is no loss
in long eyes – I read you every day,
splintering on door-sills and lintels. Do you know what fires
lap up the last? How can I forget?