You left your love in
  Papago Park
   leaning against
   red rocks that feel like
fevers now
give me a palm leaf to shade my
eyes.

I can't even sleep when the sky is so red
in September
  no leaves on
the ground,
either

It's all dirt here.

You've left your love in
Papago Park and it may as well be
any side of Mars
with how far we have to
go and
how impossible
this
seems.

It's 1778 miles

    from where I am, here
and you are somewhere
else

I don't know why
the further away
  you fly
  the more afraid
          I am:

there is no cage to hold you!
or tool big enough to clip your
   wandering wings

It's 1778 miles from
  where we've packed away mud
     and sticks and feathers that were going to protect us from
  
    the storms- you told me.

and still you've found your
self
a continent
away
and here,
  the temperature
    is drop
               p
                 i
                  n
                    g
                       fast

It's been days out
in the desert
in the no-end
summer
when I wish
now was
then
and then was
always
keeping up with
later

My brush is full of
fall-in-love hues.
cinnamons and cardamom,
   rich garnets buried inside rocks
     that have yet-to-be cracked
   open.

my hand is full of
tiny thoughts,
  the color leather & lapis
lazuli,
where the south is leaning up her chin
to give the north a kiss.

I'm going to
present you with the colors
like a row of
exotic spices-
expensive, condensed, the palate,
this palette,
of every world I can see you
in.

I don't want to search
for the dark side of the moon.
Someday, I'll just know.

It's always a whistle to
catch my
attention.

A man, a gym coach, a steaming hot
tea kettle.

It's always a sharp note of bird
song- though,
au contraire,
when a bird actually whistles.
When she actually sings,
I seem to be
the only one who
stops to listen
though I know she's not looking
for
attention.