I've been keeping track
of each shudder and smirk,
making field notes
of your apologies
and your
demands for apologies,
quick sketches
of your grace.

One day you won't surprise me.
Then I'll put you in order.

Like two friends
on either side
of a swaying drunk,
birds and leaves
are always ready
to catch me.

I shove the noon backward
and never choose to sleep.

I slink heel to toe
on each terracotta day.

I am never so sure
than when I steal
avocadoes
from beneath
your swinging
knife.

When I watched you through the window
dodge rain to get mail,
I was spiked with the need
to shock you
with words.

But David and Solomon,
our mothers and Coke,
those selfish *******
invented every beautiful thing,
repeated them over,
and left no good word
I could say to you first.

My shuffles echo
in half-built homes,
I vault muddy wadis
and stomp in circles
like a baby elephant
throwing a fit,
until the too-slept dawn
makes me see me
too much,
so I
track dirt back
to my
safer nest.

Some souls ferment,
become bearded and bent,
don't miss their legs,
have something quiet to say.