a complex system of coming ans going through stops and gates and tunnels underneath your thick grey winter coat and the twists in your spine feel natural as you lean your head in love with your fingers silently tapping out morse code messages on your left pant leg and you consider what to say next and then again after that
don’t have to take the bar exam to see what you did is ignoramus 103
in hazy mornings
in sleepy swollen eyes
the tree on my street
the streets in my life
i can see already the permanent pout you will have on your face in the lines and spin of your head and though your tiny mouth is covered pink with lipstick and can tell there’s a taste on your tongue of metal cold like a satellite abandoned at the corners of the universe and spreading out like how flowers evolved it’s also obvious there’s still time for you to stand up straight and look quickly at yourself in the mirror before a brief lick of the lips and you flinging open the door
your dark hair line so solid like a stone wall when seen up close which means you are dreams of the forest and my eyes are birds that spot you as a place to build a home out in the open space of your upturned palm raised in a question that has escaped your mind so you lay back your head and doze confident it must have been a lie
carefully highlight every other word boy and show yourself the story of the shine of the fishing hook that works in the gills of a fish that calls out like rainbows and arched backs until a dark cloud moves in with a single bolt of lightning and freezes the frame takes the cut makes a scene before moving on and leaving behind an empty float with just enough room for you to realize you’ve gotten too serious
your wig trembles slightly on your head as you paw through your purse and pull out a death pamphlet that you read hungrily with perhaps a memory of saturday afternoon manicures and saturday nights on the couch with an empty bowl on the coffe table in front of you as you gaze around wondering what to do and unsure if it all will be ok
twins with your crossed legs doing whatever because you knew you could and now coming down into the following years of routine and a better place though it might seem like the sepia nights and slow motions of your memories are what’s missing and not what’s being made every time you turn to face each other whether in anger or boredom
with curly hair and eyes like that boy you could be a greek statue wearing clothes hiding not just things usually shown off by greek statues but the veins that surely turn your arms into leaves turned orange in the cooling weather and in a wheelbarrow tipped over and showing a thin layer of icy frost like dying grass that still has marks from the laughter of the summer and the rain of apirl and early fall because the earth never forgets and like a greek statue neither do you when it’s fall like this and the moon was just full and reflected on old panes of glass some of which are broken and some of which heal you like a scarf around your neck and a cat in your lap while chicken soup simmers slowly at your mother’s house
with this sting in my eyes i could be growing a tail and filling up with helium to float so light into where i would be looking down on the blue sky and seeing the curtains blowing and rippling in the soft kisses of constellations and feel so calm despite the fact someone is looking in on this dollhouse
