I have medicine.
Am being kept alive by progress.
Little pills like droplets of pale blue
Doctor-nectar.

I have been inside women so beautiful
I nearly gave up
Ghost.
Their confidences were instruments

Of classical composers.
The creative pleasure of the
Universe manifested. Aesthetics. Pure.  
Their bodies were salty

Words longing to be
Poetry.
They did it.
Made flesh immortal.

My hands were dead upon them; my
Heart skipped beats in the name of
Glossiness.
Twig fingers upon dead silicone.

And I grew around their hearts
Like a tree around a graveyard light post;
Watered with tears and appreciated at times  
When any

Grieving heart throws itself at anything
Beautiful and
Rigid.
For something.

I know love.
It tickles and hurts.
And I know death.
They're related.

Sisters separated at birth.
I know Poetry.
She says to Death and Love:
*Do you guys have the

Other two
Thirds of
This
Medallion?

looking out the window of a plane,
I wondered if I had ever seen
stars this close before and
somehow let myself forget-
not understanding the beauty
to be found
in a vulnerable sky.

I had done that a lot growing up-
forgotten.
I let memories dissipate in anticipation
of better ones, not knowing, or maybe refusing
to believe, that the best memories were quiet
and garnished with love.

I wondered
why I hadn’t appreciated more as a child,
why I didn’t gulp down life like I would
a lemonade on a sweltering day.

I took many things for granted then.
I didn’t look at trees
with awe,
driving down dark roads,
listening to the hum of wheels
against pavement,
but with heavy eyelids.

what I would do
to go back
to those evening car rides
and keep my eyes wide open.