Sixteen songs have passed
And sixteen separate landscapes to wipe your hands with
And as I dream at night do I consider it
That a part of this doing is my half

Sixteen songs later
Sixteen quiet throats, yet I keep my mouth shut
And I shamelessly enjoy the gifts you give me
When we go to bed before I dream

Our love is in latin, it won’t last

Sixteen exhilarating chases, games, ever-expanding radii
Like irises on a road map, we flower through the countryside
We are an aneurism, we yell at walls, and we laugh
Sixteen family tree autographs

Sixteen sad songs, suicides, sixteen songs you keep on tape
Their last words bent into screams like pictures on TV
My dreams have become my trial
Seventeen’s my last

potpourri of stale disheveled grasses,
arcane and forbidden mouse holes, and masses

of leprous bristlecone pine, acid atmosphere, of venus.
sweltering, permeates gold, naked, anti-shade crevice;

torn from digested fence to digested fence.
a seething sneer in the canopy, turbid herb scents

(of spring, or morning, or rain, have since
been mumified to accompany summer’s rescindment).

and ground-dwellers, caterwauling, as this eutrophic sea
is the ulcerated stomach of a carnivorous beast.

lust drives the ferocious field,
scorching as automotive steel.

Linger,
when goodnight brings resistance
and words say time to part,
I can't convince my heart
to do the same.
Time be still,
give me a moment, then,
hasten me here again.
It matters not the place
just the face.
Wherever there is we
I can breathe.

you gave us the sign when you
turned  off  the  porch  light  an
d we swam into that summer n
ight in Holland and we were gh
                           osts which I enjoyed because it
                                             was the closest thing to being
                                                 a person I was ever going
                                                                ­   to be.