we sit crosslegged in language
on the Persian carpet I got you last
time it stormed. Time gathers over our heads.
is over there,
behind the rolls of 16mm
short I made last July
sitting on a tower of spine-broken
novels. I pin thank-you cards
with stranger children smiling
so I remember how to move my lips. I did forget
how to make my head spin, so that day
with a smirk you taught me. The long-play
is the soundtrack of our bedroom.
I plant avocado pits, hoping
magic beans, and maybe, I, sprout wings.
buried deep inside the silken fabric
of sanity, I pull apart the stars of cross
lovers. my morning is fluttering of ravens
on my window, my downstairs an unavoidable increase
in pretentious “decaf soy double espresso” orders. we wish
we were Hercules, but when we cut their heads
two new ones sprout. and February
makes me shiver much less
than hypodermics or women’s killings,
yet my blade is useless against lightning.
yesterday I watched people’s heads explode
in a tv show. we laughed, quite content.