The mountains never play dress up
and sometimes I feel
like we shouldn't either.
But that doesn't
cleanse us
of the sad reality
that we do,
the sadder reality
that we can't help it.
We throw lights on trees,
as if the moon doesn't exist,
like a child who makes a cake
only out of frosting.
We put lipstick
on cuts that need stitches,
and I'm reluctant to admit
I find that painfully gorgeous.
We pour dressing
on salads,
and talk about the weather,
and then pour dressing on that as well.
Even when we undress,
we still cover each other
with dots of infatuation,
but neglect the reality between them.
That's where the honey is.
There is a sweetness to our naivety.
It is an unpredictable ghost
that drinks the ocean
through a straw
and sings hallelujah
to draught stricken fields.

Worms eat the dirt in
front of them
and leave their ****
behind them.
It is a ******,
yet noble existence.
And when the sun comes up
the robin will pull
yet another juicy one
out of the soil.
Until then,
leave me behind, love.
Eat your dirt, love.

My first name
Ripped, screamed, slammed
Out of calm air
just before impact

Sounds like trays of silverware
being dropped on linoleum,
The crash in the restaurant kitchen
That stops the dining room

Smoke and steam erupt
From the maimed car hood,
Crescent bent steering wheel
Speedometer needle frozen at fifty-one

Squirming out of windows
Because the doors
are crushed closed

We buried our illegal treasures
Somewhere near a plowed field
Underneath the scraped bridge

No need to panic
Only until the grapey blood  
Runs over my brow

The windshield was molded
With the impression
Of a bowling ball

We saw a slip of hairy scalp,
a wet potato chip crisping
in the sun

The kids at school drew
peace signs and *** leaves
On my mummy-wrap bandage

Ten years later
I look in the mirror
At a fasten seat belt sign
Of a scar