back home i have tiny lights strung all twinkle-flip around the edges of the planet- i live on a planet with the makings of an urban bird's-nest, of books with colored bindings, spraypaint blackchip bookshelf, pokerface moon poking lightfingers at sidewalk couchcushions. jelly-jar flower stolen at moonlight bicycle. spell your name in the rain between trees, sharpen a pencil with your teeth. i only invited you because here you are, finding yourself tongue-tied, halloween cat-tailed, flutterspent at the edgey curb between this and that. rat-a-tat-tat. tapping your own lip with your own finger. blurring yourself in the mirror.
back home i have a dresser drawer with exactly 2 condoms and 2 plastic tests. oops. an invisible picture i took of us. bent heart rocky: missing. hankercheif crumpled with salt, snot, sweat where you draw a map of the bed. flowerbox wound yellow with years; bear-colored clump of hair; silken steel string; a thimble. memory of floating compass. memory of grain formation; rice castle. memory made of water and fallen leaves. memory bald, empty, layers of paint as thick as the crust of the earth. sometimes when the earth is a pie and you are slit at the center, steam-seeping your inside heart out. children make beautiful music when they dream. the picture of them. the curl of them like birds, bent, sip the air up like a sugar-cloud.
i am falling out in another place.
i miss everything at once.
spin birds up in my twinkled web of sleep.
breathe.
.
