so,

i saw a piece of you
the other day.
i found you out in the yard.

and. i used to find you
                everyday,
but,

we are the inside of a silverware drawer when the lights go out.
We are an old can of soda
we are the underside of a frying pan.the hinges of medicine cabinet mirror.the back of a fake hand gun

a pocketfull of chemical hand warmers

The washing label on shrunken, favorite, sweatshirt-
storeboughtstarmarketpumpkinpie.
Brooding at the breakfast table.
a telephone that rings when you don’t want it to.
we are nylon down vest- reversible-  tucked inbetween
arm and
oilskin hat.
We are dead houseplants.

homemade radiator covers,
feet under the covers
we are  waking up
we are slacking off in class.hating other people.wading into bathtubwater. I. hurt her daughter

polished like a powderhorn.hurting like a can of vegetarian baked beans.
like an old pocketknife.

we are
pantsless in the hallway. we are backyard garden. we are tripping over the recyclables on a sunday.    
we are good radio song.
we wanted garlic.butter we got hotdogs instead.
That’s supermarket poetry. It hit us.
golden and radiant-
as the smiles in the   cereal aisle.
And it was cold outside.

the milk froze in the car

there is the
creeping up. like a pale yellow blanket strangling hairless limbs
when it's too hot outside for us to brood properly-
and the oppression of the sun sends away our nuances in favor of a blunt
summer glow.
with all the neatness of a flat wash on the new sidewalks.
we, dumbed down and desensitized.
our fingernails sleeping at the bottom of cracks in the hot cement. like ants that crawl out of the dead grass and up under your skirt.
just as the wind tosses your hair nervously under the ugly sun.
just as you laughed at a harmless car crash.
just as the makeup running like a thin slip of tar.sliding deeper into the slits of your eyes.
just as Hemingway's tobacco-stained teeth gnawing at your ear.
just as my words forgot to feel around in the dark of my mouth to find you.
just as the razor-burns on your legs started to itch.
just as i cut my thumb opening up a bottle. and wiped it off on my shirt

have no heroes.
deceive your children.
teach dogma.
killing is okay if your cowboy hat is white

there's a hot-time nevermind madling, and a girl with her back strapped to the wall, hair pushed to the side, knocking over shampoo bottles with the tips of her toes, one by one- into the too-cool water. and there's a ten year old song you've never heard before on the radio. and the treebranches she brings into her bedroom. and knowing she keeps a pocket knife in her jacket just for fun. wet white teeth. somebody loved me clean. the old fire wood. witch wire snares. walking in the dark. did this man find a woman under his kitchen sink. did he hold her with hands scabbed over like an old man's nose. up at ungodly hours of the morning.  we hold hands.   up like the electrical tape wrapped around her ****. we have no heroes. we try to hold conversations. we try to keep our cool.

you were buzzing in the bathroom.
slapping yourself against the tall window

i thought to myself,
            i'll swing open the hinge and set you free
but when i went to wash my hands, you stopped buzzing-
and i stopped caring.
   and i walked away

no one will notice
but at the restaurant
pressure treated wood stuffed under her sweatshirt
her frame soaked up into my ribs
pushed together hard
like the bones in our hips against the seat
to feel her guttural pulse.
in the space we share-
dive into the slow-burn stove in her voice
a flashlight passing through the red edges between your fingers with your hand held against it.
catalytic cells in tiny metal boxes breathing on the back of you neck.
nothing left between us but our elbows on the polyurethane-killed table
nothing happens.

we imagine splashing our faces with cold water in claustrophobic places- under pressure- pushing down into submarine voyages-

we take our time-

we open up our faces to the sleepless weeks, lying on the floor to stretch our legs

there is want of words between us,
but languages can't do enough to satisfy us
and looks can only hold us for so long.

and the contents of my head is old refrigerator meat-
leftovers found in the back after too long

[she doesn't  see.]

we've had it too good to (****)
we sit in soft bedrooms but
feel like we are freezing in the street
with a hard fistful of hairy knuckles and bad years
we talk like we've been there,
we sing like we've cut our lips open on the wind-
pushing our hands into our pockets down to the elbow to get out of it.
walk tall or sling low by the hold of our railroad boots.
sharpen our pencils with swiss-army-knives,
pick out our splinters with it
but we have too few,
       we've not learned to hold things carelessly enough-
not learned to hurt hard enough.