like a pack of howling wolves,
with their heads pointing to the
moon. But you lied back flat like
a porcelain plate against a midnight sky

of spate. Your prickly shadow hung
down on me. I called to you my twin,
moaning like the wind wrapped around
the evergreens. You slipped through

like a breeze. And expelled
me in a sneeze. I called you in
a Midwest phone booth. It was like
pulling a tooth loose to get you to

answer. You spread contempt
just like a cancer. I speak to you now,
without paragon or violence, without
face or guidance, in silence.

like autumn trees
blowing off the crimson
golden leaves,
till the limbs hang tumescent
and bare/burnt them
in the smoky air.

I shook him
like the ***** mat outside
my door that won't
lie flat.
Flakes of pebbles and dust
swirling around me
in every gust. 

I shook him
like a bottle of champagne.
Popped his cork
like a bullet to the brain.
Spilled him out
all over my floor.
Relinquished my pain
on every pour.

I shook him
like clothes in the dryer
sizzling hot
like coated veggies
in the fryer
All the cornflower blues
mixing with the green
and purple hues.

with chestnut doe eyes
warm as my apple pie. Just a set
strawberry cheeks
sitting next to a nose high

as meringue peaks. He’s just
a mouth of cherry lips that slip open
to rows of pearl onion teeth with
a rounded peachy chin fitting him

underneath. Two ears sticking out
like turkey wings. But those ears don’t
hear a thing I say. They’re just two
organs on display, below the thinning

wisps of grey. I stared at his face
with my own when we're alone. I stared
on screens and papers, during long silences
and many capers.  I’ve seen the shiny melon

head every night in my dreams
as I lie in bed. He’s just face
that’s stuck like a cork in the bottle
of Cold Duck.

The lawn's grown high over
the thick padded soil that covers
the hole like the skin over a boil.
The space on the grey stone is

carved under his
mother's. The last year
on his father's have not filled
in. But he's alive and thrives

in my suffering. I've seen it
in photos, not in person.
His clothes that he wore
don't fit him. His mountainous

biceps flopped. The taut stomach
dropped. And I wonder if
he lost that wide-tooth grin. Now he
can rest/hands crossed under

his bearded chin/over his breast
without all the stress that placed him
there. Gone his worries. He's in
no hurry. At last, he's home.

He will stay put. He will not roam.
Death, the only thing tied
him down. Death itself wings,
to higher ground.

I thought you were
my tourniquet. I was bleeding
a slow death.  I looked to you
to hold the dam, not lose myself

to what I am. You wrapped
around me firm and tight. Then
took off like a flock of geese
in flight. Like a bomb blew up

I lost my limbs in colored
glass painted crimson. You cut
the cord without a clamp. Pulled
the plug from the table lamp.   I stand

a tree without branches. You blew
all your last chances. But I can bend
in the wind and regrow my limbs
again.

chipping off the painted
color. Twisted as a cruller,
hollow and hard. Life’s duller
after the accident. It’s an unlit

cigarette, a junkyard red corvette
folded like an accordion, scraps of old
pieces of tin. Memories mixed with lime and
gin don't wash out this suffering. Dings

and dents of cellulite. Dimpled skin
that once held tight now hangs low
just like the blues and mistletoe. The soft
December snow clings to the frosted window.

for turning my skin crimson
then vanishing behind a cloud
burning my eyes and limbs in
a hole through the sky that is bowed

drooling in deep purple haze
asleep before the end of the day
bubbling me over in rays
turning my grass into hay

palling around in a shadow
watching the moon disrobe
to it what do I explicitly owe
an inflated star of a fiery globe?