and the color blue dances
in the meadow with pale gray
till civil twilight
waves them off the horizon
a raccoon scales the side
of a skyscraper in Saint Paul
who knew there were raccoons
in the city
who knew Saint Paul
had skyscrapers
who knew half a lifetime
would pass
without getting any closer
to the answer to the question
is it mine
this is the glass age
and the year of light
has slipped away
we fight the darkness
with burning stick
figures we forgot we drew
when the words wouldn’t come
the best building
is no building
the best body
is nobody
she ever knew
how to awaken
without disturbing
the loam
if there really is just one system
she will keep fueling
this container filled with water
and carbon and blood
the flaw in her profile
is no accident
each snowflake that falls
on her tongue
tastes like the splinters
he used to feed her
the ones she would crave
with the disorientation of a junkie
between fixes
tin ceiling tiles bounce all this
wayward light
into her hands
it’s not snowing
on this day in mid-June
an excessive heat warning
kicks in till 7 pm
here in the middle
between the famed river and hidden channel
only the dirt and wood in her mouth
are real
what gets incinerated
can no longer forgive