The clueless response to dying
gets caught in the yellow puddle of light
fallen on my blue spring bedcovers.
Shells, a mirror, a bus ticket, a shelter
And the torn bible next to the sage plant window.
The little feeder eats the night, forgetting
to breathe me out on some occasions.
I have some uncertainties.
I don’t even show my face a little.
I climb my way home through the flooded
corals of lavender cloud.
There’s bad network in Heaven, but
Jesus is my godfather.
We pluck roses and plums, the first few
a little bitter from the frosted atmosphere
I’m an entire city, people popping
their little heads from below
pretending they’re suffocated.
It’s either there’s too little water
or too many pretty boys with bad behaviour.
Apparently everybody stars in a soap opera
and I never made up with my grandmother.
So long as we ride the same rhythm.
No more Peruvian air/ drying south/no defects
and the word/ you mean to say is/ reopen
Lincoln are you terrified?
Somehow I’m in my summerbed
still evolving. There’s no bodies
but there’s blood and the cult session
nextdoor keeps vibrating through
my fallopian. I was almost a little
human back then. We love enough
to sustain massacres in our hearts.
Let God reveal our dark stripes. To
no human blank
isn’t a practice.