here's what you do
he has the silliest, most
western grin,
you grab a good branch
everything is this nice
before-autumn green
and i'm watching him
plod ahead in his old
levis, copenhagen ring
a frayed outline
it's a good gun, is what I mean

you gotta get a good gun.*

he turns around and shoots.

i think he was trying to say goodbye
up there.

there's always room for a last hurrah,
and I kept stealing it away
what you want doesn't always matter, princess

he tried, a little.
to soften the ground
not the fall,

show me he still cared
breaking ties was too much
so he was only trying to undo
them, set me out into
the hollow and
watch me float
away.

how positive should I
be that someday I will
turn around to see him
standing in the doorway
admiring the mess of
a kitchen i left
tracking rocks
into the living room
woke him up too early
smiled at a baby in the
supermarket
spoke to the asters
and callas in the floral
department, singing too
loud over fried eggs and
***** dishes, I am in here
waiting, unsure of why
i have never
or how i have never--

good lord, where are you?

I have so many songs,
and so many things i want to say
about how i have given up
and given in, hovered inches
from the ocean floor, a rock
bottom with my name plate
not like his or hers,
and will i come back?

i have so many songs,
so many things I want to say.

i once asked him
if he still loved her
and he said I'd hope not

i think that we
misconstrue open
wounds for old feelings,
for love,

that it is harder to let go
of the things that hurt
where we told ourselves
it was okay to stay,
to bed down and bunk
that we were safe,

the truth of the matter is
that none of us like to roam
and every country, every
campsite is as beautiful as
home, where we shared
too much and hid nothing
because what greater freedom
than to bare all,

it is safe to say i know the outside
of what love looks like, like skimming
pages or folding sheets-- not really using
the thing,

not really using the thing.

i don't think this is what it is,
all grit and open blisters,
maybe that is where it starts
before anything can begin


i'd hope so.

what a threat to be erased.

or i will erase you completely

people are strange and

the quota for that is filled--

one time is enough to be

told such an ugly thing.

i imagine she is
so much more
fair, they all are
always blonde
and delicate,
I have to
tear myself away
from this place
where my body
is just a shadowy
afterthought in
the midst of a
hundred yellow
strands, someday
i will not stomp
through the forest
someday I will
be able to linger
and be the kind
of beautiful

the kind
of
beautiful.