At the edge of the wood
And draw maps of what we believe
Our anatomies will look like
Before and after the war

I carry expectations
Like tension in my jaw
Ironed into late-night
Tapestries out of sight
A beast of burden trekking
Across conclusions

Trace the seams of your body for loose strings.
Pay attention to the places the unraveling has started
Again, to the places where you’re making the same mistakes.
When you’re alone, smoke endlessly into the night
And reset the topography of your heart
With mortar shells and ******.
Repeat this process as needed.
(You’re going to need it.)

There is an immutable emotion that all of the
Displaced strata and debris only serves to cover.
In the past year, you have found yourself
A lot dirtier. Yet you don’t bother to excavate,
Expecting to still recognize that glow
When it comes bursting back through the earth.

You will leave this place soon,
This haven of brick and asphalt
And have decided to make
One more mistake before you depart.

In the five o’clock air,
With the streetlights off duty,
The mist struggles to mingle with the
Sweat-drenched clothes that cling to
Your sweat-drenched body

You have told them
That you’re not sure if this
Means anything,
Not sure if you’re looking for
The same things
They will take it as a challenge
And mistake you for knowing what
You’re talking about.

But you are so comfortable here,
Feet on the asphalt,
Groggy with lust and
Unwilling to sleep in the beds of
Future lovers
As if four years could make anyone
Savor the aftermath of a
Future disaster

You will leave this place soon,
This place you are so comfortable with,
This place where the mistakes you make
Don't linger into the waning evenings
But crash hard against the brick
And shatter in the five o'clock air.

Your 4-month-old kitten got stuck in the hollowed out tree
Half a mile into the woods behind your home
The one where you used to stash old
Board games and magazines
He died on top of a stack of TV guides
Overnight

You get used to leaving more things unsaid
With each appraisal of the stones you
Mean to leave unturned
How the quiet moments in the margins of the night
Dry up in reverse burgeoning
And you fear them shriveling to show
The insulation beneath;
You wish you were more cynical of the outside world,
And more trusting of those close to you.
Aside from the hope you stockpile
In hidden shrines between your synapses,
Silence invites nothing worth fearing
And organic silence cradles the crumpled-up papers
Disproven hypotheses and stories from another life

Your mother left the soup on low
As long as it took you to return,
Thistles hanging from your jeans and forearms.
You are not yourself, and never have been.

You want to pull off the same trick now,
Keep the burner going long enough so that
The quiet moments carry, the soup stays
Warm enough for both of you enjoy.

The loose-leaf lectures remain unnecessary.
You wrote a eulogy that day, but never recited it.
The tree continued to grow.