the children are all running wild among the crab grass
eating the wrong colored berries that their parents warned them of
just to find out for themselves
they play cops ‘n robbers
cowboys and indians
a gun is a stick is a gun
and I’m sorry to say
but that kid over there just shot you dead
you have to fall over now and play tragedy
a mess of sticks, plywood, and leaves is a home
they all ate way too much candy
and are throwing up rainbows all over the new carpet
crying over spilt ice cream melting on the pier
cringing not from the ****** skinned knees
but the expected sting of the alcohol
the only thing they fear is sitting still alone
now watch them as they try to ride the neighbors dog
and climb trees so that they might have the view of Gods
gambling their future for fun
not fluent in the language of consequence
and they don’t get too worried about what they don’t have
because they haven’t developed object permanence yet
not yet are they jaded from life
they run around in the hot sun with red ears and noses
until the sun goes down and their mothers call them home for supper
and we envy them only because they know so much less than us
and ignorance is bliss

I often wonder where
we've drawn the line in the sand
and why

Is it simply so that the winds
can have something to disrupt

for a year all i knew was
cut knuckles against torn cheeks
your blood in my blood
*you told me we
were becoming
one

*** was a card game—
and you were the player
holding three other queens.

we keep the house cold
so that we can trace life
out of the puffs of clouds
that hum from our lips.
as he skates off the bed
feet nibbling
at the floor boards,
arms drizzling
past his waist,
he sits on the edge of the air
changing what filters into my lungs
with each yawn that stretches from him-
his pale back angled to my face, I
stretch my legs towards him,
resting my feet on his back,
toes tucking into the brails
of his spine,
and we wait within
the beauty of those ripe days,
when everything fell
on our swollen eyelids.

you, the one who is fluent in the language of my flesh, temples to neck, hips to         heels

        who cradles my name on your tongue like a peppermint, your chapped         lips twisted into a grin

        who carries ***** words around in a matchbox then dances dangerously         around my body of fire

        who, with plaid cotton patches of tan and rust, muffles my mouth and fills it         with sweet ash and dust

will surely be the death of me