We’ve come so far—you and me.
The staircase, the creaking footbridge,
The murder mystery in Yorkshire.
You looked at me as if questioning my doubt,
As a reader.
I read Nabokov when I was still in school.
Look at all the sparkling things in the light between
Us.
My heart looks for love—
In salt, in lemons, in the way
People speak Hebrew against all odds.
I wonder if anyone will ever read this, ever catch up with me?
I am learning something Arabic, I am making dough. The charred fingers of my host extend.
This way.
There’s a hole inside of me.
I think everybody sees it, and they’re all waiting
For me to say something about it. Maybe, they
Think, that’ll be the start of something good for us.
A couple in the crowd, near the front, look at me as the
Footlight emphasizes my nervous sweat.
I look at the hole. (I will die with this weight on my lap.)
I look at the hole. (I gave away the brilliance of being alive.)
Sand around the edge and some trash
Begin to fall. Everything is reaching a natural
Conclusion.
Finally, my lamb of blood and wasted breath,
The splinter pricks the skin.
How long have these eyelids prevented me from understanding the abusive temperament of
Spring rain?
There was a time when i would say something
Preposterous and you would kinda believe me.
We’ve gone beyond that now. Now,
Look into my eyes. Swirling. The weather is mixed,
Your plans are on hold for a while. I ought
To be wearing a sailor’s cap, which makes me
Want to apologize for hijacking things. Dumb bell,
You were here. I was there.
Water.
Nobody explicitly
Said not to, so I just sorta became the sea, chopping up
The tender parts of the Earth just to get to the good parts.
It will look at you, the Sun—
And that head with its wild strawberry eyes will tilt
As if imagining you’re a sinking ship,
The horizon tethered to its cruel orbit,
Which is why your ferocity is so
Important to our survival.
I was born in a swamp of glitter. No
One knew quite what to do. Gale
I loved urgently, and I stabbed a guy
Near the corner of his eye, blinding him.
He had kids or a dog. Something.
When I think of it like weather I think
Gale—makes it sound linear and trackable.
Go ahead, wash it all off me,
Producers.
