here we collide
Worry me at the tail edge of torn seams,
Locked into conversation with the neighbors again
About the man who met the telephone pole
And lived. Heels sink into flattened grass and we
Trawl the mud shores of memory:
If you heard the frail shout of shattered glass
Or felt splintered wood curl into bones
And fall asleep.
Fray me cautious, a collector of fine fragments,
Holding plastic between fingers like a burnt-out cigarette,
Flashing like a widow’s candlelit window finally
Going dark, knowing
Just a breath could gust anyone out.
He was asleep when oil billowed behind him,
A trial separation of codependent parts,
The art of letting go learned in the bitter pause before
The ground breaks:
What spaces there are, that we
Have never touched.
the pool was not turned off
for star magnolias make / no ripple when
they let their / petals drop and I
have ever stirred / the water
gently now / summer storms tremble
and send / a shiver through
open breezes / shuttered gates grown
cold from lack of / working hands
no one / will keep the rain / outside
if it longs to warp the wood grain
no one / prepares for the weather.
the ritual leaving / storm-drawn
stars brushed back morning
pools / to rainwater / too soon.
body castaways like leaves
spinning under the surface tension / spiders
walk on air / grey-thin as a sliver moon cuts
a smile where they hang
eyes eight / jewels upon / the night
Wait by the windowsill until
settled dust turns sunset-rosy as those
chapped lips December cold.
Pick an apple from the bough, a host
of sweetness for your
split arsenic seeds
golden pale, the other
shutters. You insist on keeping cold
only what’s heavy, live with eyes
closed by sleep
and blackout curtains
spit the seeds from between your teeth —
This is freedom, freedom, and
The cathexis of cold hands.