dear,
come back tomorrow, won't you? they're almost finished turning me under again. tunneling through my stomach for their water-lines, a little lavender tractor idle, stained with spray-paint and rain. my crows collecting wasted papers, tall grey owl steps back and forth in cypress, the eucalyptus makes a small mess everywhere he is. i want you to gather my pigeon feathers and fill your pockets, i need your noticing where my trunks are stump. you're the only one to remember me rightly in my totality, unruly ecology— our secret rabble of wings; our trimmed things.
*
dear,
i've been slumped up book-piled indoors, white windowsill dusty, but the color of snow in the sun. it's been summer. are some of your winter-trees tossing cherry petals yet? with you last, i thought, "i want you like a dish of sweet-cream for a kitten." like needing your even green gullies, tunneled tummy. your pinprick tips of mistletoe, little hard red blood-berries, apple-tint ink-blots in green. where and what were you before this? this morning in my "i smell purple!" i thought you heard me. tomorrow will be some other thing. all curtseying, cypress, your wing-shadow, soap-flower. when i finally find that dappled owl again.
see you then.
love ali.
.
