by by Robert Sandler

I’ve found bits of everyone in you. There is no more grass in my yard, only clover. Found a way through fields one day and fell. No one lifted me and I lay there heaving.

When foggy air brought a bat to my room I captured him naked. In the rain when Zampanò said “he cannot slaughter that tiny sliver of space,” the foxes were screaming. My grandfather cut my great grandmother down from the vaulted garage ceiling. My mother is sweeping onion skins off the counter. These narratives need complication, a string of beacons from rooftop to rooftop.

The morning complicates, half light for a half-wit. I am running across the vacant lots. The children next-door had a burial for their cat. Sabine, at six years old, wore all black. This was
the nerve of wandering or the recognition of a currant, pesticide over pitted skin, tongue to protection. Even in a reverie bound by strong cords, shadows serve as proper mirrors. Reflection as gain and lack, nuance in the feathered edges. Shadows change in color or surfaces change in the light. These are tell tale signs, swim with me forever, do not once rise for breath:

Expansions draw upon muscle memory; the swing set cast in shadow from the vantage of my room.

These are dangerous claims to make, any sort of infinite or positive. I speak of the future in a graspless fashion for fear of ever being right.

Sitting across from bare legs, the thumb crevassing your thighs flashed a penis.

I do not know how to feel precious things as my ligaments are mismatched armatures. A wooden dolls with tines for hands,
pinch - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - pinch.

We watched simplified gestures in the same room, rows apart. Thick sluttish legs, legs like cassiopeia, waiting for you. I am a vacant face in the corner my funny ginger nymphet. You live above a sandwich shop and overcook eggs. I am wary, walking in the rain has often driven this tight lipped feeling from me.

There is this ritual of grabbing which makes me feel used and feminine. I waggle for it, the almond butter, the plainness. You move my thighs when I watch pink yarn from the window. Porcelain nails against my skin. Filaments of cherubic chuckles (the clatter is symphonic in the morning light.) Tile to tile of ecstasy while I await to wash your patterned back, a morose likening of dew. “Marry me.”

I plucked a flower from your dearest friend. I did not mean to, my fingers are so rarely still, so rarely spare.

Bother is used indeterminately, flanking my sides with beaded cowlicks and a cobweb. It has snapped all desire from me. In fact, I ache in absolution.

Walls apart they chuckle, I am veiled in slight plum and tangent grays. Beseech me to wonder and I will cry—fain not.

I veiled myself in mop and you in rotary scrubber and we were terrifying.

I have yet to retreat from your cause, it would be too pleasant if I had to run. My shoulder could not bare to move me. A shudder to shift, blatantly tired, fatigue awash.

My mother took me here when I was so young. I did not know the difference between transitive’s and thought the pool a vibrant mirror.

When you entered space a loss created an anxiety.

The world is seldom of its own accord. It is small flower filtering.

Remember deeply, in certain, in backyard lore, the toothy one rules all.

If it is true we cannot die. In certain, the overlap of valleys deepens a depth.

Only this is the exact temperature as the host of other times.

Now the sounds are at my throat, slowly working their way towards and infinite signals and winds.

There is a lofty bean on your arm which I gave you. You took two vicodin and we drew permanent signs.

The sweet summer air of Baltimore is licking the mildew of your fishtank. Wax and bark have tattered edges in the sunlight.