Under the still and open stars of a cousin's farm
too far to touch, I've dreamt of whiskers on catfish
since we last had tea.
The Waitomo Caves are strung by glowworms I
was too afraid to be touched by.
What if it touched my arm
and had me turn around?
If one had stuck my lip?
If I'd feel my face in blue glow light
just for a while?

I'd rest my head upon your arm
to take a memory for Facebook.
Your college crush would see herself
as phosphoric string that brushed your hair.
At night we'd drink a flower-blossomed tea
and meet again, two cave fish in a dream.

Writing music is the sweet pear dream
I plucked from a choir in springling years.
Back then I also dreamt of mermaid kisses
and reality television.
Why would a beast wish me music now?

I suppose it's okay if every once in a while
you remember the good in the times far away
how once you laughed when she laughed
her silly laugh
and when you used to feel nervous
at the sound of her voice.
her voice might call butterflies into your heart
a honeycomb maze dripping thoughts like
molasses drops.
maybe that's okay.
and if you ever wonder what it would be like now
to kiss her forehead
before bed
and be her little spoon
in the mornings after happy dreams
I supposed I can't blame you for the fantasies I don't know.
I've seen them too. Your hips between the space in her legs,
her hair polite under your chin,
fearing parenthood together.
I think to live your life with someone else
means to accepts that we'll never be one another's
and we won't be as close as the dreams we have of others,
like of myself and the forest and the rocks and the birds outside my window
and the *** I'd have outside in the invisible nowhere
and the wildflowers caressing and scratching my fat legs;
of the women I'd hold.
So I suppose I can't blame you for sometimes wishing for someone else
when the possibilities for our lives are so huge
and we only choose one another.

ah
so this
is what lips
are for

A dress for every me
I couldn't be with you

Sovereign, star-flower,
Sorcerer-painter.
Essence
of pink Skittles
and air incised by blue-lightning.
My lady hums fire between lines in lips
-- smoke
and perfume watermelon.

That little boy we both know, his nose dabbed
with whipped cream, smiling ice cream lips,
chin speckled with sprinkles like his freckles.
everything that feeling is, is you.