I am too clothed in feeling.
Strip me naked.
Eat roses from my body.
Tell me yes.
Call me back.
Say “hey, I see that you called.”
See me, dance with me. Ask me with your eyes. Touch my hair. Yank on my scalp a little. Trace me, into the earth. First with fingers, then with dirt
First with bird wings, then with ash
First with echo, then with eyes
Archive me and put me on a pedestal in the future. Remix me. Add a bass beat, some Annie Lennox, a Prince riff, some Marvin Gaye, and the line from the Villagers that says What were we hoping to get out of this?
Dear sweet nothing, let’s start again.
Strip me of roses. Find me
on the third door to the left. Your prize money, your best review, your board complaint. your Madonna, your woman in the shell, your man in pants, your blazer, your Obama, your applause, your mic drop. Your recession after the wave. Echo me. Plant me like a tree. I’m your courage to speak, your rose water, your quiet to think, your beech wood pulp, your Amazon Prime without the atrocities.
I’m your finest robes, your throne, your forgotten hour, your lost brick. The one that fells the wall. the hole that’s a prophecy. the way for every migrant child to crawl home. I’m your Ragnarok, your machine gun, your Krishna and Arjuna, your yes, your no.
Your field beyond fields with Rumi. Your creepy Teletubby sun, your brain on ecstasy. Your thoughts on societal inflammation. Your thoughts on capitalism. I want to touch you. I imagined it all last night. How I would lift your chin to kiss you,
you with a towel on your shoulder humming in the kitchen.
How I would run my fingers through your hair and trace the small of your back.
You’re a part of something, like rain. You anchor something in a world that wants to know me.
And the other you—the you whoever you are, when you take your socks off at night—
It’s all the same heartbreak isn’t it? It’s all the same chariot ride to nowhere,
too close to the sun,
somewhere in the details, a melted wing
a hinge undone
a swung open door
I see you there, fresh in daylight
looking good in linen. carrying roses
Or is that a baby?
every small stone
remembers mama mountain
archives of wind, water, tumble, glass,
moss, that time a thousand years ago when a
lizard claw tapped rock just so.
I’m the lost song that went to the moon
the moon who caught it
the world, robbed of your voice
and the robber
and the word
swallowed like arsenic treasure, rose gold
in the dragon’s womb
careful, you’ll explode without a Joan of Arc! Her sword can point the way between this and that
and the place where they meet.
In another universe, you see me
we’re naked together, it’s impossible to hide
In another universe, my throat falls off and becomes a seed. A century later, someone will eat this fruit, have a déjà vu.
walk into the cloud. Wear roses.
Don’t come back until you’ve harvested all the intangibles
taken off your glasses
and seen the eyes of god
A bird on the wire
take off your glasses, peel off your socks
place your heavy head on the hardfloor
sigh roll slowly the way the world turns, the
way a new corpse would fall down a mild hill
waiting for your prescience, your
I am your Armageddon, your rose gold
your lost words and last thoughts
the space between each bardo
where digital traces crackle like dying fire
in a long cold night.
Hand over dark ash, a forest leaning in with new unfamiliar
Fruit from an old tree, these sounds.
a hand-picked lock,
a door ajar. I see you, fresh in embers.
you wear life well you laughing beggar,
you crown prince, king of glory
and death. I see you are a woman too.
You falling grace, you majesty, you lost throne, you overnight horse
waves subside we feel the foam at our
I tear the hyoid bone from my throat to feed the
fishes. She rides as a ship
bangles of letters and sores
the night the skeletons come to dance
Night princess. kept sleeping. kept sleeping
Sleep is so suburban until the quiet learns to
You come running
You come laughing.
You call me back, no expectations
you want to hear my voice. There’s space,
like landing after a reincarnation.