we were little babies
and we watched Barbie movies
and made apple, bread, and cheese salad
I saw you every weekend
and cried when you left
I cried every Sunday
and I looked up to you
and wanted to impress you

you burned incense in your room
dyed your hair every color
you were saving up for more tattoos
after the crescent moon on your hand, and
you kept your room too dark

you liked to tell me
my life was beautiful
and that if you had my life,
you would have turned out better.
what do I say to that?
I am just like you.

you ran away from that bedroom
to live with us
you ended up in a hospital gown
you didn’t want me to know
or to think you were crazy
but I still looked up to you

you wanted to lose yourself
so you gave yourself a second name
and you tried to sell our rings
so you could go live somewhere in California
I try but I can't get hold of you

do the dead become nature
combine in one apotheosis,
as a frost preserves a color
wading to its perish?
death must mean to be
a complementary, as moon
sweeps into sea and makes calamity
seem brief enough to cherish.

when you no longer
are able to walk,
make sure that
your words will sprout legs
and travel to places
outside of yourself,
bringing you back only
evidence that they found
places to rest.

I heard about a Chinese space station
that will crawl back to us
like a prodigal son,
bowing down to the earth
like an apprentice.
when will We crawl back
into the crust and sediment,
the bones of our bones,
and live in the empty ribs of a globe
that forgave us for the mess
we made in the kitchen?

the sun and moon
will fill eachother with what they are missing
the lonesome moon now beats the tides
and pulls them in to shore
just as the sun is met by moon, he says,
"I'm very CROSS with you."
they start to laugh as sun throws out his arms
and paints the crescents of his lover on the ground