creaking back to the dim blue
of your body, not morning
exactly, except for the way you turn
from me. I see your face in another’s
more often than the past permits,
(data cycle expires the 20th)
your mother’s apricot scrub –
I should have asked – tastes vine
on my lips & if I rouse yours will you taste
her too? just thinking ahead here, stuck
with the then & now, when we write
each other in the future, what are you
drinking? what will we say to our mothers?
I glitter my phantoms, make them prancy.
I long too much, symptomatic of trust
which last I heard you would not
touch me in ways like the last.
prognosis: alright, I suppose,
my feet are cold with the night
before tried to rue / burnt out bar
in a cloying mood & yet . . .
dancers in the corner moved
the way I wish we could
instead. I became a taut one fearing
my own sloe eyes and you,
your hair, beware, the mounted deer
loomed over us
& I wished for 90% more
bottle peel to shred. lately
everything I speak spins you
into dread, back to the haunting
of your skuthery head.
I only want to talk fault
lines, baby, how once I lived
on the largest in the country,
how I don’t mean to keep
shrinking into that city it’s just these
webs of houses leave me speechless,
like the phrase Post-K, or seeing
glass hit the street for the first time.
speaking of streets, what do you have
against those swings, or for her
& her & her?
I know there are lines
you just don’t cross so hold off
showing me yours except please
don’t – I’ll open my mouth for you;
I’ll meet you in the bathroom.
I’ll meet your come here lean
against the corner counter, wait
for the door to declare us alone.
we only like me when you’re drunk.
these arms of mine shaking & now.
for one thing, I can’t believe you never saw
Patrick Swayze, not in that way, helpless
against Jennifer Grey in her summer-
. . . why are you awake?
who waits for answers like these.
I swear that two can be one,
even if my deer
foams rabid &
sometimes plays horse,
hoofing plans away
you can exit this poem
don’t cut me off
through the window even
before I can say,
love – the fine line
between every heaving thing.