The book was soaking on a bench
in the park.
It was dripping from my hands the
whole way home.
It was drying on the sill when first
it sparked.
It was warm and dry again when
out it roamed.

Eleven years ago I am a vulture
picking at a rabbit on the side of the road.
I am just doing what I must to stay alive,
and the casual observer passes by
to observe, rapt, disgusted but unable
to look away. Then a wind blows and I
am Victor in the motel hallway, knees
enclosed in my elbows, head tipped back
against the wall and eyes on the ceiling
in dismay. Then the train hits the tracks
and I am cracked and reassembled
in the present day, carrying all these
ways that we’ve been gay. Feeling our
burns of each degree, how we are
learning family.

A foot slips on moss
from rock into water.
Like the phantom final
step at the top of the stairs,
the ground that’s not there
is my final monster.

I’m collecting keys,
weighed with opportunities
that stretch my pocket

Between the sun of my eyes
and the canvas of my eyelids
is the silhouette of you
which I must always look upon.
There is only dead.
There is no gone.

As adventurers prefer
hot air balloons to trains,

death is convenient
but I've found something better.

This time, please,
can we take it?

Just sit still. Look
out the window and wait
for the wind to change,
and the tornado will teach you
to feel relief when waking up
held by no one.