sneaking around the front door,
i’ve become in my loneliness one of those spiders
that waits underground. are you, too, underground?
you spend time hidden, you say
“i am under the blankets.”
in my backpack are seven small seeds
that i break with my palms
and take with water
(this is a slow-growing flower)
in my dream i hear
jamas, jamas
the flower comes out of my mouth:
i am awake
elliot brings me my fur coat
and in the pocket there’s a letter
and i eat it
he dejado de ser tuyo
i don’t think i will ever
again walk on a railroad,
says the flower
i think i am poison
where is your breathing? it’s going out the window
to the foxes, down to the baseball field,
rolling like a sweet apple
pulling a petal out of my throat
like a string
she sits in the chair, smoking
have you ever been a carbon steel knife?
daydreaming in the midwest, waking to think
of being carbon steel knives
that dreamt of new edges.