where i am
  the skin of   yesterday
an empty trellis—

and here
a slate cover
—over   nothing

i am not dumb
i could read before i could walk but i don't remember when i talked, or what i said.
the words always tangle
they tangle in my ears and my mouth and they ooze down through my bones to my lungs
make it hard to breathe and see
i am not dumb
i know your bluey veins and your callous knuckles. i know your eyes are green and i have never seen them, not ever. but i saw your hand twitch, just once, next to you
myoclonic ****
like you're falling asleep

i feel fear as a rule,
it grows in my ****** like a perennial,
baby's breath if you're lucky
i crawl because i feel fear as a rule
i can feel the weight of my blood and
it pulls my viscera to the ground (all the way to my grave)
all my limbs contort and they abandon me.
the smell of cherries and beer draws me to the kitchen and she draws me out and upstairs
it is so strange to me to occupy such space
why have i grown if i am a child?
the smell of cherries and beer draws me to the kitchen
she draws me out, upstairs, kissing, pulling hair, again
again. again. again.
again as a rule

my limbs are cold and purple and i ache for the past;
they will be rosy soon (if it turns out to be raynaud's in the end)
cairo used to be a boom town, she said; it ain't anymore,
if we're talking about the same place
i miss the waiter in kentucky
he couldn't have been more than fifteen
someday he'll buy me a house

pull on my teeth, press my tongue, make me *****