when it's dark i can light a
candle & drink the wax
with the can of my first beer,
how stupid didn't i realize
it was your mouth all along.

when it's night i can wish
upon a shooting star & bury the
remaining flame in
my neck, like how you
did with your breath.

let me hold your hands, taste your lips
one last time. press your body
against mine, one last time.
dig me like a child
even if it hurts, or feels gross.

am i too heavy, am i trying to
pole dance on a mcdonald's straw?
i shouldn't have gone away
even if you'd told me to,
i should've clung to you oh

even more, even more.

It all fell into     the water
they dropped off into the
hole in the earth      that's
no volcano, it's where the
moon came from     that's
the great ironing board
that they use to starch
God's shirts.

It all must be pressed shut      like the plastic lips of
the prophets who buy furniture,     like the image of
the captain riding a bicycle,      like the pain of a bee
sting underneath your eye, draw up a photograph
of the survivors,       this is what you lost and where
to find it,      this is the origin of time travel received
by the most primitive humans.  That's where you put
your hands when you want to take us home.

Inviting.

The thin blue flame in my night-burnt fire
grows dim as dawn unquiets
another day's numberless happenings,
culls light from dark and carries
life forward while I, in sated mood, watch
first ***** in sparrowed pools lost
on those still bedded and fastened to sleep,
hear Spring-born lambs' early bleat,
smell warming grass dewed with new morning
and catch first breeze stirring shored
boats as sand twirls grasses in shivering dunes.
Unlatched my window wafts lures
to ****** some moments of closer approach
as closeted dawn opens
eyes and secretes rising smoke on sun's thaw
inviting a barefoot cavort
to wild-life's awesome nature, all on my own.

my father has been drowning goldfish in the lake: forces me to clean the windows, take the trash down to a ridge over the wasteland, draw a graph of the supply-and-demand of our business, then refill the fish tank

my mother has been having flashbacks to her wedding: tells me not to play in the street, reduces me to rubble during a bombing, has me write a paper outlining the culture across the sea, then tells me never to get married