another morning
when you search
later when things fall
they always will
stretch out to
each day, a phenomenon  of
order and disorder but no,
what’s between?
bodies, fall the same way
each time
eyelashes too on the same place,
same spot on the face
feeding into it when that’s what
it wants what it wants is
for eyelashes to
keeping fall and wishes run thinning
since wishes unwork and unwind
and the same lashes
the same wishes
but chaos theory
avoids time
structure, we preside in
P.M.and A.M.
wall to wall
skin and soot on bottom’s heels and ears
and bodies, all the same,
aren’t they?
structure is
unavoidable
chaos theory is without
option
struvture without option
without sound but loud in consequence
its the same
for those like us
burying eyelashed face in
numbers and now-- words
always buried beneath something,
layers of clothing
or layers of pillows
across the belly
until straight enough to sit without
rolls
but rolls of breads, succulent and sweet
and rolls like child’s somersaults
and roles that you play for everyone
and yourself
when layers collapsed within
the walls of intestines
which erode
and the role is you
standing without
rolls and without much else, either
and skin cannot renew
skin cannot replace
you can try for ceramic skin
but thin is breakable,
cracking the hull
of the *****’s boat, the same
***** bandaging what you want to wound  
its structure for bodies
you and you and
the best friend you ever had
with freckles you cannot count
and a gummy smile,
structured the same and
what language do you speak in?
because
              wrapping            
your tongue       around
organs isn’t the same
speech
but the spaces between teeth is not enough
to contain what’s oozing in
the edge of a back,
the corner of a ankle’s ***
whatever it is,
is structured

praying towards the roof of the mouth, cathedral hallways
you said
on my knees elapsing
towards a response from you
but you’re carving out your tonsils in the kitchen
you said
i said
think of the excuses you left on the floor
roll them at me in between eyes
You can smell it
you said
You can smell it on my mouth
mopping the floor with your sight
it’s frightening
waking to
shattering keys
leaving keys in
locks and bed and shelves and waking to keys in loopholes and
a headache
like the swelling of a wave before
he crashes back in
to himself
back in to the shore line of
his face. his face of uncertainty,
uncertainty quivers
the tip of this wave
into a sea of uncertainty
flinches at outstretched hands
fingers readily echoing the ******* of mothballs under the sink
until the pipes are collapsing
upon the cloud we fell in love under, ripe and ready  to rain
when we thundered, and we did, it was not a
drizzle, a collapse, a clap from the gods but a murmur
but nothing.
"Nothing under this sun could hurt me,” I tell myself
(other than) myself,
With my counting numbers,
counting colors,
counting potassium,
iron,
ounces of water
like
128 is 1
8 ounces in 1 cup
1 oz, maybe one and half, in a shot of:
reflux, knee **** reaction, temporary relief
from scrubbing the sickness from beneath your fingernails
with nothing to gain
but body like a jackknife
but my spine cocked like a gun
a body thinning like winter
changing before my eyes
I realize
I hate things that change instead of falling apart completely
humidity picking scabs from the walls
and the rash on your neck.
brown skin running from the blonde of your hair
I miss untouched spaces on your body
the things that touch you but aren’t me
things that change you but aren’t me
like sea to sky, there is no definite line,
between what is
and was,
the first dream I had of us
fingers tracing fingers and I awoke to life-
a fantasy ever since.

But now,
I am sorry for
lashes that drizzle
their whippings onto your cheeks.
minute counts,
minute wishes wasted
Hammered away at my self
, wrapped in sheets unfurling,
peeling apart form my body like
snakes shedding skin,
the coil of his tonuge like
the coil in a car, burnt.
tar, gas, antifreeze drips from
words. Words.
I always get stuck
on words. a word, the words,
let me return—
While eyes silently ran the maze
of your arm, you tell me
“this is too beautiful to be an accident, katie.”  
but if this is not an accident,
then it is changed,
but not by me.

Let’s  begin
When you left  you were shaking off resentment from your skin like
what's creeping up the wrong sill like worms deciding too many things
Left footed thoughts, swinging right in the outfield, me
you up to
bat and ready to
swing  but

let’s rearrange, compose, like a symphony
no like
geometry, because there must be proof in sides

so
Falling to time,
a narrative begins between peeling walls and moldy carpets
here, this is
where, we fell into the hole you hide in the back of your closet
us, American kids, falling in love over fuzz free tv
and candy
coating our clean tongues with ****
playing with our time in-between friction and when time
comes for our tongues to throw pitches against the midfield of your mouth

Fast Forward
you’re carving out your tonsils in the kitchen
with plastic spoons cause us,
poor and unready, for grow up things except diners
silver stained spoons, when all we needed was a god
**** knife,
for two years we get at it like kids do
loving the can opener that rides our back, twisting our spine  

Rewind
up to the neck, wring like a rodeo
but all in good fun,  
cause you only saw it on the television set
and there’s no harm in that television set for now,
no harm in "for now", but only
for right now  for
us,
Purchase kids, writhing for the championship
of the some sea that
diminishes the second we ride the ground
spun, no longer won anything

Pause
sythentically sealed
and hemming like led
us, babies of the land stretching
his back waiting to wash us up to a home,
our silken thoughts snag on the line

so we ride. on the back of things, on the side of the things, on the subway, on the seats with no cushions in your car. that flash flood. thundered silently with no sound. I ride on your back, twisting your spine like a can opener. always on the edge of things, you. you who run round the roads, through forests unpaved. reminds me of that movie: birds cross above your chest as you heave through dead leaves, dying leaves, dying sun, but only for right now. you don’t run anymore,though i wonder the sounds you heard then (other than your heart beating). your heart beats differently now than before, in your temples. you pray in your temples, in your cortex, in your brain sending nerves to your knuckles. chapped lips, chapped words, chapped knuckles. kissed between the mini valleys of your finger’s rooftops. thought the ceiling collapsed from punch, not fruit, but punches on pavement. no skeletons in the closet except for a hole in the wall. we fell into it.

love was caught napping on the windowsill
with eyes closed on knees begging.
two springs, winters, summers, falls into
angry jaws peeking
through windowsills,
through shades of dew.
love snored awake
fumbling pupils looking upwards
in a blister

"you’re mumbling up pulp again, babe.
pick up your head."
give up that ghost that vibrates between quiet hands loud words
and think of the foaming fingers you left on the kitchen floor
roll them at me in between eyes,
I can smell it on my mouth mopping the floor with your sight
"frightening isn’t it, clementine?"
shattering keys
leaving keys in
locks and beds and shelves and waking to keys in loopholes and
a headache
like the swelling of a wave before he crashes back into himself
back into the shore line of his face of
uncertainty, uncertainty
quivers
the tip of this wave
into a sea of
uncertainty flinches
at outstretched hands whose fingers greasily echo
fingers mothballs under the sink
keep telling the rusted problem
stir it around with cheeks like plastic spoons
but a body like a jack knife
but my back cocked like a gun
my baby is back,
always talking about something unless head first into something else
although I’m never quite sure of what.
with refluxs of regret
by bumming cigarettes,
kisses, even myself
"let’s get stupid.” and  i do.
a haze of carnal avoidance  
wagging the finger,
blurred, curled, wagging at me
bubbling up like our own private pompeii
just a phase of the moon,
more like a perpetual elapse because
while humming orange lullabies,
he sleeps with the belly of the beast
and his foaming fingers remain on the floor

even the roots of your hair are warm
amid this dandruff winter.
tribal tracks stretch to melt with your sun belly, warm
twist tongues like bristles  
impasto scars left
behind in soft places
planting harvest in your nail bed.
between motions,
we fall into warm rays.
Stretch our backs- stooped roofs
a rat a tat cat caught in sunlight
tips of fingers crafted
like a porcelain milk bowl
the haven above your lips shatter
fits of grinding dreams.
fall back asleep to black and white sounds
and that **** street lamp:
our room’s own star
moon tucks away behind
clouds like specific uncertainty
curves the blanket upon the handle of our hips