at 8:20 am, i get into the shower
and remember the last time you were in it
almond milk, pine sap, sputtering hot and weeping
we didn’t dream that night and
after you left i lay on the kitchen floor,
repeating myself.
during the day i sell the same wine over and over:
tobacco leaf, dry leaves, black cherry
there is one here that is a kiss, a second
i can’t describe wine as a cul-de-sac
and your button up, so i say “strawberry.”
i flew to new york and
the weather felt like my blood,
sticking to your neck
we spent the weekend in the country
entangled, frightened, drinking cider
spilling it out through our sharpening teeth:
dogs barking at a few falling leaves.
when i came home i scratched off my skin- i turn cold daily.
there’s not much to eat and
you would tell me that
there isn’t enough cheese in my fridge,
and it’s the wrong kind,
and why are you looking at me like that?
i come to you each night in your little plastic bed
breathing small seeds
pocketing light.
(you don’t know. you are asleep)
how do you do it, keeping so warm?
dear, i can’t stop drawing the moon
because i keep hoping i’ll see you in it.