Why do I smell cinnamon in the corner of the room?
We must begin this taxing slow-dance before my mother hears us.

My Cradle. Your Cradle.
            I felt your pulse spike before my back hit the wall.
            And we’re both young enough to say this can’t really mean anything.

The sea whisper’d me.
The staunch, scarlet statues.
The ringing phone in the glove compartment.
            No, I’ll take paper, instead. The renegade robots are all dead.

This flight. This grip.
            Talk to the scumbag rocker in the Primus hoodie.
            Did you spy the shoes on the power lines?
            Don’t worry – we’ll keep our arms at the level of our eyes.

We bumped into the roses in the closet.
A wasp could sting you then sting me.
Such is the burden of my position --
            An interpreter and a translator of the venom
            passed through a sting.
            The mail-sorter in the dead letter office.

Oh, hey --
            Could you stake your paw print on it?
I would take the slivers from this past year’s thigh.
Down a trickle, faceted deep within a pulled star’s root.
I’ll follow that root back to where it came – dig and pitch the grime from a catalyst’s pores.
Times slopes
and our teeth rattle with each somersaulting channel of memories.