spelled refipe in old books,
expect difafter spelled the same.

manner.

check the symptoms daily.

it is that time of year, with whether,
fear for those at sea, the radio
plays for me.

these are the darker days,
petrified forests, all too
many effs. spelling can be
a pleasant pastime, when all else
fails.

to activate the brain, and pleasant hormones.

I felt your skin
strip away from me-
you said you’d be right back-
as you slipped into foreign bodies,
lips soft with easy dinners,
who forgot the lightbulb burning out,
the lid left rattling on the counter,
a suit of pots dented, stacked,
steam lifting from a rust-ringed drain.

That studio in the Texas Riviera
was never meant to last-
brown carpet, AC rattling,
bass beating through drywall,
neon from the Whataburger sign
bleeding through blinds.
We were two beautiful accidents
in a month-to-month, always paid late,
your sweat a spell pressed into my skin,
ankles grinding on parking lot gravel,
the road outside a forgotten promise.

And when you smiled I held you
like a chipped glass,
rim still sharp enough to cut.
The ember died against porcelain,
the glitter was swept with the crumbs.
Your armor slumped in the pantry corner,
rusted tins, lids unfastened.
You walked away, naked and ordinary,
the light left buzzing in the kitchen-
outside, asphalt slicked with oil-sheen,
my body, also, dissolved
into the shimmer of the road.

Some summer flowers have yet to die,
Such a miracle to innocent eyes.
Though my scarred flesh cares to wonder,
What sort of life they had.

T'was it an empty one?
With no true purpose at,
Except catching a young girl's eye,
And coming home to live in her ***.

Someday these flowers will be nothing but hanging carcasses,
A looming reminder that time will pass.
When they do finally fade,
The first tear of winter may be shed.