When he says he wants a family
and I say I want everything is it
too much to pluck the moon from
the sky and carry it in my back pocket?
Rather than his hand there I like
the feeling of not being pregnant
I like hot air balloon rides and
sinking into the earth after rain
when he talks about the future
it's a pie chart and a clearly labeled
and concisely drawn graph and
when I talk about my dreams
in the morning they are vapors
and LSD my words mean absolutely
nothing I weigh less than a slice of
bread mostly meaning happens in
between things or when I hear Paul
Simon whispering lightning in my ear.

*Our children would be green-eyed monsters

Fog covers my eyes
Sores cover my tongue
My lips are chapped as
Sandpaper against the nights
Last night I died,  I don't
Remember
Losing my chapstick
I don't
Remember getting home

Birds outside my windows
Bellies already
Gorged on worms and
Sunlight
And petals spread wide and webs
Spun silk in the tired light
Yawny as the day goes by

Tuning his piano
Lid open
Musical mechanical
Guts exposed
Ear to strings
Plucking
Humming
When his cat
Knocked the lid closed
Human mechanical
Guts exposed

After one bite
Of grimy
Teeth sinking into
Mottle red (and green and brown)
And yellow skin and crisp
White flesh

An explosion of giraffes
Full of shrapnel
Chaos
All the colors
Gazelles jumping
Into and out of and through and around
Flaming hoops and elephants
And zebras and hurricanes with names
Names she never knew existed
And existence like a bolt
Of lightning struck the very heart of her
Churning her insides chaos
Theory and all the colors
Hyenas laughter
And painted ponies leaping out at her
Grinning as her insides
Cooked like thunder and she
Found herself
Screaming like a panther
Hiding under dappled leaves and strung out rain-flecked hair
Crying like a baby over
An apple core

Me and John lying in bed
And on the train tracks is a
Groan and shriek
A metaphor for rambling

O, that whistle sounds like Holly
O, that whistle sounds like John
O, that whistle sounds like going
O, that whistle sounds like gone

Me and John lying in bed
And on the tracks is a dying away
And on the ceiling are familiar shapes
The moon makes

O, that whistle like my mother's voice
O, that whistle like a charge
O, that whistle sounds like running
O, that whistle sounds like God

Me and John lying in bed
And in our minds are separate thoughts
And in our heads
And in our hearts
A metaphor for getting lost

"Oh, that whistle,"
Whispered softly
"Oh, that whistle,"
He agrees
With a quiet understanding
With a nod
O, that whistle calling
As our lives are getting gone

Fly away little bird
Sleep around
This country is too beautiful
To settle down