i. you were made of heat,
chewing the sun in your breath mints,
spitting its seeds in the dirt.
a fog clung around your head, the air
entranced by the warmth
coming from your fingertips.

ii. the river ran by a meadow
of crushed glass and pavement,
black and dusty, and blooming everywhere
were broken necklaces and aluminum
flecks of dew.

iii. footsteps and drawstrings,
when you lost one you’d inevitably
take the other. a soft thread of wind
to cut your throat, a dragging adventure
to nowhere.

iv. if you went home and wrote a poem
about your eyes, you’d forget all about
the wax weighing down your eyelids
and taking away your sleep. it was never
a part of your ideal appearance,
lying on a tile floor and looking for a
one-way mirror to take you back.