The littlest things are all your skin
tape wrapped around my glasses
when I pull it off it bleeds
the seven stitches you fixed my shirt pocket
it ripped again and screamed
all we've got are ironically high speeds.

I swore you belonged to the Pleiades
uncertain which sister—
so you ask why you never earned a home
in the seven portraits beside my bed:

if even scraps of skin around here whisper
I'm sick with fear
for what it might have said.


A twelve-step program for growing up and growing over
I will till the dust you kicked up and drove away
plant poppies to fill the space
the progress where I scream at the sky
stand obscene before the sun
I will grow over you this place
there will be flowers when I'm done.