We only connect when you cry it seems.
So many different stains on this bed,
and I wish you were here when I was
happy, but not smiling;
Any of the moments that would be
cheaper for sharing,
but stained if you were there, now.
Here, now.

I wonder, (now, and not often)
if those sheets hold more
tears, or *** fluids, or sweat.
I don't dream anymore, however.

I've never had a beautiful dream
about us, and when I did we were
awake
and a long time ago
we shared that common dream.
You don't even feign interest
in me anymore.

You watch me starve and carve myself into
morsels, easily digestible fragments,
and then turn over and, maybe praying,
though we swear we don't believe in god,
that I'll die mad and half naked in your sleep.

Some trees bear flowers and you'd swear
they die in winter and may never blossom again.
They freeze and turn into wonderful spidery things;
fingerbones strewn haphazardly on some streetlight.
Petals that were pink like new flesh,
rotten out of mind and existence.
I wonder what the blossoms become
when the tree sleeps.

A tree has grown very slowly in my bones
inside my fingers dark paint thicker than my fingerbones
a mess of sticks inside cloudy bushy leaves
brushing the ground from the top
long strong pieces inside creak
it is the foundation and strength
sturdy pops in the musical hearts of old pianos.
the oldest things are trees
you can hear their waists without hipjoints standing in the wind each year
they always sound hard and alive
wood is lightly round and around and thick
the color of coffee and light cream
they are oldest because of the new leaves
significant colors from ugly knobby wrists
the wind in them sends a slow s freshly
a strong lullaby that touches low height
grounding the air and my legs.
A tree has grown in my bones
my legs curve in heavy waves and gravy in the ground
and my face that twists on the trunk of my neck
is the back of a chair for a bird's pillow
the sight of a bird looks like it's free though it belongs in the sky
so while it sits
is feels like it's free though it belongs in the sky
so they are free on the sides of my house
whispering into my mind
on my branches because only something
with foundation deep
and brown
can have ears where wind blows through
tall enough in the air for the mind to breathe
my mind bending up from pressing out to breathe for me
a nest where bones and milk press freely through the leaves

Your frail fingerbones
against the palm of my hands.
Impossibly soft.

I dream in color,
watching myself receive a
just, violent abuse.

In my dreams I’m strong,
but not now. I’m helpless now.
Then I’m waking up.

Distortion season,
a heavy fog awaits you.
Early sunglasses.

I’m helpless here too,
just graceful under pressure.
I handle it well.

Late morning
In a slush of wet snow
The early, indignant barks
Of neighborhood dogs
Fills in the spaces
Between soggy snowflakes

The warmth of the radiator
Settles over me like a wave
A warm wash of lethargy
Over my already tired blankets