ink
I am. more with
every day you are silent
i fill pages of
excuses for you i
leak steady from
my mouth my hands i am
every curve every stain every
line in this notebook but so are
you.

the old woman I
saw was the caretaker of the
garden of ******* and i had come at
peak season.
back of a lonely metal
gate in water-town they
pulsed up from a circle of
eggshells smooth and imported
soil fine grounds of
woman.
i felt with my eyes
cranberries my tongue
red.
our caretaker feeds eyelash and
honeycomb i see my face in its sticky
reflection i
drip and wet
velvet garden unfolds to my touch of
early summer

all nice parks give me
vertigo.
i thought at first maybe it
was just that one park but i am
here again and i feel
sick.
i didn’t come to write only
about you but i guess i also
knew it would end like
that anyway.
is it soft
wind and summer flower
hair
sprouts from that clover and
that one
wraps my ankle, grass,
turns quicker quicker
i am only trying to lay
still.
why did you follow me
here?
only ants and lavender
stalks i cannot see
anyone.
dandelion air presses in
my jacket-sized indent on the
grass. spins
stop i want to yell
no one, you
aren’t here to
stop. right
silly me, i think
i should have remembered that all nice
parks give me
vertigo.

i sit on
cement because there is no
beach. i biked here to smell the
sea and listen to soft broken TV
waves
often times air smells
like something at least but this air smells
like nothing empty.
it doesn’t smell even of
sun maybe this is what the space of cement smells like in your
throat.
i sit on
cement because there is no
beach. i must be on top of a
gutter because the sound is not
grey fuzz but glug
glug like a stone throat trying to
swallow a gallon of milk in one
go.
glug glug seaside cement
symphony i don’t like
milk.