She says her boyfriend
is looking gray, not from age,
but from handsomeness

Little kernels converse
with my hot, oily blood when I
think about what you did

He has grown vines all
over his body from
old age and wisdom

Can I sing
Can I float upon his guitar string
Do I dare to grow
When will I know

to leave
and will the angels grieve
at thought of me
being gone? On my own?
Am I on my own?

I am not a work of art
nor will I ever be
as long as we assume that
a very human Human
is shattered at every thought,
everyone tells me
Let it die
and stop the crying
We are more than death’s travesty rhyming


(What future is this here in my hands?
What is there to touch unless one
Thrusts their arm
Forward?

Show me
that people can really break,
for I believe that
if this were true
being in love would have done so already)

I prefer watching
movies on my own, despite
being so helpless

Ten years sat on her
with all the weight
of a century
But the things she
saw
prodded her brain like a
dull scalpel
looking for
love to salvage
There was plenty