hot in this long sleeve jersey
don't want to take off the sweater
that smells like you
and i remember things fondly.

bright red nail polish
macintoshs and washingtons
on my fingertips,
match the feeling of red wine that
i've made last this whole evening
bittersweet going down.

bittersweet
going down.

i am alone in these rooms
the sole inhabitant
in one little corner
in one little space
my gigantic prayers
from pale tear-streaked cheeks
floating like ribbons
out the open window
right up to the sky.

i ask you to tell me if you hear me
and i feel a cool wind on my bare chicken legs.

40 W - 401 N

when i was driving
the sky was so wide
i felt like a child
being tucked into bed.

royal purple and gray
like feathers in down.
i felt smaller than the breaths
that i could hear from my mouth.

vision in a classroom

i saw myself
hit as with a truck.
a swift blow
but with only air.
and i blasted backwards,
upwards,
my chair, too
though the wall
gone like sleep.
back first,
then legs,
head down, bowed.
cheeks at rest.
it doesn't hurt,
it frees me.

vincent & francis, cursing place and time

the tear in his upholstery
the polaroid on the dash
it smells as of her youth
in her father's hunting truck.

holes in his jeans
sunflower seeds in her hand
her journey is marked
missing him, missing him

cursing place and time.