My eyelids are a coiled bolero,
a bear trap,
a battery.

My tongue is bitten with
careful measure.
The skin of my teeth,
a dormant antique.

My breaths tilt forward
to the next dry season
and downbeat ignition.

I keep faith with the calendar.
I worship the prophet,
the savior spark.

I'm long overdue
for a poem
on her eyes
or her lines
or her
sleepy Sunday smile.

But first,
how do you write a poem
about another
person's
jokes?

Wood-fired summers,
spiral iron curtains,
cloudy watercolors,
a stride away from certain,
brazen vinyl blearing,
lazing under searing,
sighing over greening,
reading over fleeing,
gritty teeth and halfway crying,
brand new air and album trying,
one foot keeping
in your hiding,
noses stretching into braving,
loudest laughing,
neighbor waving,
counts-as-living,
public sinning,
barefoot breathing,
hornet seething,
coffee filling,
spirit swilling,
someone
smelling
later
grilling.
.
the safest sort of being,
only just outside a door.

All these trees
reach up for warmth
as I cool my boiling
blood beneath them.

The clatter of dog paws
on a wrought iron gate
thunders a newness,
that something is coming.

I think that it's friendly.
I think it's been paid for.
A storming of something
that's coming for me.

These kids can't cope,
don't eat on time.

They stomp craters in sidewalks
on their way to the
culling.

They choke me in comet tails,
blear beauty through brains,
cursing at cops,
stooping to saviors.

They streak their spit like evidence.

These kids get angry,
get plosive,
like it was kissing or grinning.

These kids get angry,
and I've yet to say thanks.

The soft side of starlight
keeps winking
through my blinds,
surprised that I'm awake,
asking why I'm scared.

"Can't you see,
can't you see?
All the breathing,
all the blooming?

A curve or two away,
a month of brave at most,
weaving through the pines,
there's laughter there
that's yours."