I eye
these dreams that dance
like puppets on a broken string

In my head
a purple morning mist descends
Like fingers unfurling, over the valley
the valley that raised me, the rolling hills

a dream to look out my bedroom window
as a child in a swirl of ivory and pink pillows
I dare to recall these simple pleasures

to string those images with the puppets I meet
in my new city, grid city
under ground bars, graffiti, speaking only on
liquid courage, drunk on the scent he seeps

some feathered beings
in my mind fornicate
too dark, too much ink on his arms
and not enough on the page

I can see where the valley lives
within his body
hear the purple morning mist in his voice
riding one long exhalation of breath

this thick beating of my heart
some clawed animal is snarling
in my chest, prowling back, forth  

he’s asking to see my childhood bedroom
the swirl of ivory and pink
so far has only had
six visitors, and none
ever stayed too long

his gaze lingers, his eyes, prismatic
all I need to do
is open the door just a sliver
just enough for him
to fill the room with light,

strangulation, the council in my mind heaves for breath
for the hours we are together
I am brought back, pressed here, and ****** forward

so
so, I marvel at my tenderness, at the sweetness of his lies  
when a him becomes a hymn
how long can you sing the tune
before your throat runs dry

moon wash blue tint soft shadows writhe
river sway trees bend wind bellow shiver sigh

and come the burst of day
what feels like an open wound
feels like a new patch of skin
feels like a bruise that is fading, but still pulsating with a persistent
kind of loneliness

my body is a zoo for all of the animals
I have collected over the years
my breath a haven for orphan
thoughts, caught in the wisp

of his half hearted grip.