Night is filled with flowers.
Like a twisted ankle this gas station
Smells like a pulled weed. Nonetheless, dawn is a torn dress
Mechanical and tumbling down a hill. Yes, of course I’d like
To go to the corner store and microwave a burrito
With you. And of course, of course, I’d shoot a couple of holes
Of miniature golf. Seriously, if I could
Taste your breath, put your nape on the tip of my tongue
And roll over
Every empty corner of this room
Emptying my pockets of elephants
And butterflies.

if puddles
passed on
DNA

reflections of
elbows
and the biceps
of stars

if puddles had a hairline
to matter about (and they do)
would they grow old

to stir the square
add asides

a pompadour on a rhombus

a quiet
that sold its hands for yearbook promises

a stubborn blue
with numerous white birds
for walking shoes

 

in the dust of lyrics
lost gravity
in billboard boots

in the rubble of stars
a nosebleed
grip
on god

i cohort
i sabotage
i gleam

desperate
shelves
for eyes

a sweaty globe
for a conscience

because pieces of sky in
puddles
are barefoot fires