imagine a mattress abandoned
on the side of i-390 on the rock salt (somehow from the sea
leaning up against that sloping cliff’s edge of land

locked up in villages unvoiced)
a makadikadi daydream–
a back against the crust of earth
as young strangers whispered and daydrank
just inside
across the crackling barrier–

distant suns stretched icicles
on eaves of barely empty buildings–
houses with no owners watched,
nestled against sidewalks coated over in warning
of a return to rest

noise-cancelled
shoe-gazing

black coffee frozen in the doorway–
against a tapestry of laughter through AM radios and portable speakers

pretending to nap

i used to write in barren singed meadows in the summertime.

i used to write about the moon
        hanging shadows on and around my neck;
the cacti shriveling blisters in death valley;
      
imaginary summer superstorms
& neurotransmitters:
        pulses and a lack thereof.

i wrote about punctuation
and the ghosts i’d talk to in circles;
     sepia-stained,

i inked over them in ugly neons and called it art
and wouldn’t rest until they danced:
       sparks against the tips of my fingers like
                   shocks against warm sheets in winter
as i wrapped myself up,
      invisible and silent.

you’re not a poem
and that’s why i love you--

you make language lost
and paragraphs to abandoned sudoku puzzles

now my saccades pivot only to the blank spaces between
your words and your eyes and the cool komorebi(those leaves
bordering the sky of ghosts i disappeared so impossibly easily)

after you leave i sit and let my hands go numb
let my hands melt the iced latte you bought me
     when my throat was shut and shivering
     when i was quiet and charred and gaping at the window
           & still waiting for icicles long sublimated to strike

but now i go to bed with the room cold
because i know it’s the only way you can fall asleep

and i’m silent on purpose so i don’t wake us up

we talked for an hour over chicken alfredo
and my fork kept clinking ringing crashing
against the edge of my bowl
like every time i tried to speak my hand
(knowing it could or should not strangle me silent)
would drown me out with metal

my night was sleepless on purpose
my eyes and throat begging
to shut in shame and respite but
i forced myself awake with every sip
(red bulls and cheap whiskey and stale banana bread)
i swallowed into grimaces
i swallowed into laughter

and my soles ached and argued
against the not-quite salted sidewalks
and the decaying skeletons of autumn
against the freezing arterial
and they all knew i could never catch up
as i ran behind shouting to wait
just a second let me reach–

for what?

for who?

the words i wasted don’t exist anymore.
now i talk over myself and my lover
and the words don’t matter;
they flow between us,
herbal tea with cream and sugar
flows between us like
sunlight pouring in through the blushing leaves
the sunset trees
that only we and the woodpeckers can touch

Summer surrenders sunlight to snow, so slow;
in shades of yellow and red reposed,
autumn’s amber drove.
Into the cold and winter’s wanton woes
restlessness still blows;
despite the icy bite unavoidably exposed,
now a blooming green, in memory still glows.
Through longer nights and silent sleeted sorrows
by keeping close a wealth of warmth from yesterdays ago, I’ve borrowed;
I close my eyes today and dream, now of tomorrows.

all have gone far and wide
there, a fair distance away
where no eye spy nor stray
only hindsight dare confide
even sproutlings coy in Spring
no fresh joys will they bring
still from Sun, buds cannot hide