I wish I could live through something.
I’m trying to fold truth from fiction like how we used to crook our fingers into
church spires, over and over, reaching inside for something hidden.
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Every morning, the woodpecker would perch
on the oak, hammering, rattling bark
until we heard it sloughing down the tree.
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If you begin by zeroing in on the rings around his eyes if you
turn your head like all those turned-on before you gleaming up
like sweaty moons bobbing on their axes & if you follow
the smoke leaking out his ears hanging off his tongue my bet
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All morning I’ve been building to a blubby sticky chord.
This would explain the footprints, I thought
someone was following & every time I turned they
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Bruised black brogues, the only uniform needed
for racing friends to our favourite swing,
or tumbling, tripping
into a week of bleeding knees
and the stench of antiseptic in a ceramic sink.
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We shamble-chased
down thin streets, baring
skin in those curt hours
when the night is coldest.
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She was an old lady,
a wad of history and aphorisms,
not like us, not angry, not restless.
A sweet sag in pink felt,
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I rest on the ocean’s surface.
Gentle waves knock me against
craggy cliff faces and sandpaper shores,
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And I don’t remember the cold, I remember the sun’s spotlight.
And I don’t remember fighting the wind, I remember the marks that we left on the sand.
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The honey-tongued devil, sewn onto skin,
Each stitch, turquoise and emerald bodies
Entwined; coffined in the indigo tide,
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