Does it not feel like rain today to you,
my delicate ghost?

That or the wind has lust,
blowing up my skirt, it must see the
white you left unattained by men
I say for you, these storms are
a chance to greet pureness again.

You have an O-mouth
the way your whispers ring like howls:
borrow the air, evaporate mud.

I hear such a sound and know that
virginity won’t be enough –
what tears do fall
from your great blue waterspout?

Do they know, my delicate ghost,
they are but pieces of you dropped in
my hands?

When a lace funnel carries your final
god-spits cleansing our land
you are so delicate, but I shall ask –
is it like rain for ghosts, is it sad?

I just got a whiff of you
and the place you stood last,
the corner of my bedroom
where your air simmers fast.

In some ways, it was grey,
a fraction of our whole,
now it has been divided –
but now, you seem so cold.

What was once a bloom
she bit the petals away, wilt
our single lovely air bead
swallowed under her gloom.  

I just got a whiff of you
and the place you stood last,
just here beside me but feels
like something I never had.

there, the long eyelashes

dead in my hands,
oh god, they are dead in my hands
cannot even flutter anymore

but they are wet and they reek
of the bottle caps placed

between my bed and bed sheets
there, the long eyelashes
are weeping

only alive when I am happy
you left, something fled from me

the room was kind of yellow, but pale
shade of a misty afternoon grey
and dully highlighting your face –

I knew it was you,
by the direction of your palm and one
single eyelash slept upon the floor.

it is the blues being in love some days,
but that day was yellow and grey,
raining and hazing your eyelids over.

I thought it would be more milky –
secrete some special substances you
could taste, sweet and as nice as love

breathing wild: how could this
be okay, not comprehend a difference
of one kiss and one yellowing touch,

yet same somehow, yet the same
the room ate some parts of your head
and I fell in love with it despite that –

yellow and grey, bitter rain, I knew it.

I will show you the ***** parts of us,
and how unsafe their salt tastes,
mended, reckon bliss in this place –
no one kills what they never loved.

Because then it will not matter,
amputees are not fatal, but no one
has amputated their heart or head.  

Each person, each piece is opaque –
but there is something to be seen
inside, the ***** parts we leave
wrestling with us when they speak.

Jesus looks so ruby red, dead
and your purring
wracks some embryo to

life, gave it a foreign ring –
hand-tested gold or
diamond surfaced from oceans:

or not, no.
No, it is just a mirror
and you are what makes it

look so beautiful, breathing
sea-salt and gasoline –
one perfect drop found a well

and down, down, down
it fell. I caught ants, I smashed
in their hissing heads.

Yes, yes, so red.
God would be proud of the
mystery you and I have kept.

We drag him along like a light,
lantern bleaching flame,
but as soon as the sun hits,

he, too, drops into a haze –
and lands cross-legged, think?
There is a jeweler up there

that makes his ankles shine,
they are bolder than the moon
cousin of his best side,

as you are mine. Mine,
some sort of wordly delight –
bravery, diamond, and be alive.

he is pulling snails from my petticoat
making sure their antennae do not grow
and left feeling such as candlewax,

flesh walls seep from under their
pulsing bottoms, the apex of one head

and I am the girl it is given to, a gift
******* at my breast –

how uncomfortable to be the center of
such longing, being touched and
fingered with when something does
not belong into your body’s crevices

pressing, oh, like candlewax –
I know he removes them because he

loves, but I want them to stay
because they love me just as much,
dyed pink against my body, snail hugs.

Wotton Hill, you are a cage
for my wife’s deceased body and
my mind, blushing furiously as
I recall our times –

twenty spokes for those who
climb ladders backwards, the trees
leaves spilling into a driveway

and I would bundle the biggest
under my jacket, or my hat,
even a tulip for her bonnet’s tip.

She looked like a Redcoat,
and I, midnight’s dove,
lingering on some lane far from
our home, golden even for us,

fell back on a landscape of
solstice, each pine has a lady
inside waiting to be released for
God’s unheeding eyes:

when he weeps for his children,
I do not remember mine, but
my wife along dusty ways

and singing her seasonless song,
with every color flora against
her scalp, her retinas, her breast.

She looked her best when
she was guarding a sad head –
Wotton Hill bringing her face to
one heart-shaped windowpane

swaying in forest unhappiness
and now along this circlet,
my wife lays dead.

I was supposedly a girl much louder
than any other, talking to no one and myself
until father rushed to purchase the glue,
piecing me together, a wrinkled jigsaw puzzle
and now I cannot speak to him anymore.

Nor anyone else, the men or women
not even the babies howling to cradlelace:
if one asked for me to pull them out, I
would claim that they are conjoined twins.

Only me and the pad of paper I ******,
it rests on my ***** or under an armpit,
but worse are the sleeping crates
inside my mind, a door and a handle holding
one another like lips not coming undone.

Please speak again, they say,
they do not know I can completely do it
just not with the maggots swarming through:

please, though, put my lips back, I write,
as if I had not split them apart already
and ate the frosting they laced each with,
I will be a child whose cradle they’re inside
supposedly an infant with much louder cries.

you could mend me a little bit
stomped and right
kissing your golden eyes

when I awake, there is the sun
of another morning
and another morning song

in front of me, thing of beauty
batting his eyelids
breathing something in

could it be me –
the broken doll of dreams
or something more, glistening?

I see such a tempest riding by
rain glitters on us
a window shows love cry

and you could mend me
a little bit, while my scents you
keep breathing in.