There's petrichor in your coat
a moonglade for your gaze
I'll listen to psitherism
as I sense you pull away.

where
love sleeps on goosefeathers and moonlight moors,
withering on the solemn slopes of moss and

heather where
hummingbirds climb on raindrops,
sailing on the pattering and

puddling where
fog layers on hillsides, augmenting
the shades of evergreen, folded and

ambient where
light shines through panelled oak and
purrs with the howl of the lonely sun, speckled and

blurred where
you sigh, narrowly, and long for the tides
beyond forty-five degrees (where it's

cold, i think) where
lorries stop to breathe and you
step, i think, to be closer to magic
and further from me.

Everything is simple;
simpler than you think.

Everything is just...
Layers.
Layers of simple things.

I spoke with testosterone,
and after he ripped apart
the concrete in my driveway,
he sank into a pile of rubble.
Lighting an ironic cigarette, he said,
"Teach me how not to care"
before he fell asleep.
He's been there for a while.
Maybe we should check on him?

Hell is fluorescent lights and the clicking of mice;
a place where the mind can’t breathe;
a place where the soul forgets her wings;
a place where the only flickers of wonder
are found in well-constructed Excel formulas.
This was never my kind of magic.
I often question why the little rectangles
on a spreadsheet are called “cells” instead of “boxes.”
Then it dawned on me: this is because
working these things as a daily job function
is the closest you can get to feeling prisoner
without committing a felony.
This was never my kind of magic.
Hell remains sedentary, listening to the same
fifteen rotating songs on a soft rock radio station
chosen by someone who makes triple your wages.
It’s prepackaged breakfast out of a vending machine,
eaten in a 4x4 cubicle that’s
fixed in a room without a single window.
This was never my kind of magic.
Hell is a cheap Chinese finger trap:
failing to find release
by pulling in wrong directions.
It’s a tight trickery that insists you stay
because you have nowhere else to go;
but my kind of magic is the inward force
that has met a friendly freedom.
It’s bathed in inviting shades of turquoise,
and fell in love with the solace of the desert.
It’s memorized the curves of mountain peaks
and collected freckles from every angle of the sun.
It loves the rush of blood to the head,
when racing the sunrise
on the edge of some atmosphere.
Something that hell could never
put its thumb on; this is
my kind of magic.

My head on a bony shoulder
All joints and points and edges,
I'm only half interested in the way this feels
The mind is even fresher, I can smell what you're thinking
It smells like meat
Like boy, like fire, like chimney, like ***** music, censorship, like man.

Still, as I look up at you
I can only taste the trampoline my heart bounces on
Babe, what is flying when you are a child?
They tell me falling is even worse.
These days, I wear my running shoes when I stand in love
Did you know that, bony shoulder boy?

I suppose you'd never ask.
Too busy paving highways in your mind, silly boy
I've made my way through gravel, still embedded in each hand - see?
A brain with pathways and sidewalks is too glamorous for me
See your arms gloved in tar
See the sweat of knowledge piling pillars
Who can touch you without something sticking?
Tongue to the trampoline type friction
Who can understand you, boy? Highways crossing over like veins
You are all the trains I'm running late for.
I wish I could ask you where you would go
if I was going there with you.

You've made it clear you love travelers
And I've made it clear I love bony shoulders and boys in flames
We are neither of all these things.
Like we are of water but not of rain
I've got my running shoes on, and you've got your mechanics outstretched.
Look down at me again, like you did when I asked you if this was okay.