if dandelion is no longer a color in the box
if you can’t see the Northern Lights tonight
if my cat yowls at nothing in the morning
if you decide not to move to Brooklyn
if these words get marked with a yellow highlighter
if this building never gets built
if that wall doesn’t come down
if I don’t recognize you either after seven years
if you end up being my last
if I refuse to admit it
if I never wear a swimsuit again
if the geothermal hot pot makes me a liar
if I swim in a blue dress one more time
if I close my eyes before jumping in
if then maybe you instead

end this,
end us, or
end anything

with an Oxford comma?
These things
I will never give up:

black coffee,
pink socks,
saltwater swims,

Assuming you are a compass,
the white jet flies
into an eastern orange sky.

No clouds or bird’s eye views
of city or farmland grids
to distract you,

it has nothing to do
with compassion.

If when the plane lands,
you keep it this way,
photographs you take

will be in focus.
Voices will convey words
you want to digest.

Local will mean local.
It has nothing to do
with compassion.

What you know
will be what you know.
Your memory will kick in

(or not). No one
will tell you

what to taste
or what it tastes like
on your tongue.

You will remember
you have toes and elbows
and earlobes.

There is no east or west
pole. The top
of your head will tingle

in a good way.
It has nothing
to do with compassion.

Feel free
to cry over the death
of department stores.

Your hiking boots
will arrive
by special air cargo.

Who knew your feet
could get so big.

If a person takes a selfie
and never posts it
on Instagram or Snapchat

or Tumblr or Pinterest
or even Facebook,
does the photo exist?

Does the self really exist?
It has nothing to do with compassion—

how you can become you again
without needing
to be recharged.

When an equine monster
with eight limbs
looks you dead in the eyes—

its forehead oculus
watering from the force
of steam exiting its nostrils,

consider this:

It might be
true love,
or indigestion.

Consider this:

The island might be
volcanic, or it might
have a crush on the green sky.

only one letter
separates Ireland
from Iceland

ire from
I’ve forgotten
my heritage

beneath a slab
of hope
to catch a glimpse

of the aurora borealis
before it’s too late

I sew initials
into the heart
of the base layer

and stand before
the stage door
wondering when

I might be
let back in
to confirm rumors

green room
green pasture
green sky

A prophet won’t stand
on line
or wait to be asked
to leave.

A strand of hair
gets baked
into the cake
and ruins her

life. No one remembers
smelling the odor
of singed death
till it returns

to torture a child
into adolescence.

A carpet whisperer
and light whisperer
laugh under
a half full moon.

They read fractured myths
and ingredient lists
to one another
without squinting

or harming the soles
of their feet.
They remind each other
not to forget

the boy who sold rugs
most of a life
snuffed out
too soon.

A visit
to Vertical Endeavors
could help her
confront her vertigo

or push her too far
off the wall.
She would rather grasp
a real cliff rock

overlooking a remote hollow
and risk
falling into
a black hole

where there are no alternatives
to the truth.

He tries not to stare
at the woman.
She could have been
in a brawl,

or it’s Ash Wednesday.
A dandelion print
drapes legs and the walk
they take

to see and be seen.
A High Line modern
dance performance
ends early.

He remembers how
she would toss
out the first pancake
and close her eyes

before blowing the seeds
off a dandelion globe.

By nightfall
to another day,

her mercy wheel has disappeared,
and murderous mistakes
made with a pencil
don’t add up.

a cursed city block
a genre hopping master
a list of nonlinear films
a divided country
death to tea parties
bastardized words
hanging on a clothesline
another restaurant closing
memories of a hard day’s night
drinking even harder
another framed photograph
of a building that withstood the storm
a bridge no one takes
a booked Transatlantic cruise
a deflated raft washed up on a jetty
an exposed nail in the wall
the paint peeling off it
a neverending collection
of syllables and sighs

he wears a black turtleneck
inside a dark ratskeller
where tiny overhead lights flicker
when a train rolls through
the station above

she wears a black knit beanie
without an emblem
and a pair of leather
calf-length boots
no longer distressed

the day disappears
behind a swollen sunset
on the west bank
of the largest river
either has ever seen

she hides her fear
of wrinkles
behind an arrogant
head tilt
and wag of her left foot

she hums a tune
he recognizes
but can’t name
he buys her another
espresso

orders himself
a third shot
of Patrón

the wind outside
wolf-whistles
she wonders who
will open
the red door next

high heels are a memory
she brushes aside
with her sleeve
she mops the counter dry
with her desperation

he can’t see
the tattoo on her neck
hidden behind
ribbed cotton
and miles

that separate
him from her
real identity

everyone knows
the best ink
costs more
than Chanel No. 5
or blood

Now no one will be able to say
I’ll be the thimble.

Wish I could have been
the rocking horse or the lantern.

Who really wants to be an old shoe?
Everyone loves the Scottie dog.

And the race car
and the top hat.

For me so much depends upon
that silver wheelbarrow.

A nouveau sack of money? Some tokens need to be retired before they pass Go.

It took long enough
to add the cat.

Rejecting the diamond ring, robot,
and helicopter makes sense.

But the guitar—
why the hell not?

she’ll never be
what she won’t eat
she’ll never be
a piece of meat
on display again

not a poet
turning beet
red or blood orange
from the flawed flow
of the second stanza

she’ll never be
a string bean
or pear-shaped

she was a fish
but no more
little water for her

refuses to lounge
on a half shell
or fly away home
preserved no longer
fermented

she wants to collapse
in a field
dig a hole
where she can bury
her limbs and heart

before it’s too late
before she becomes
toxic again
and begins to eat
her own words

figs and nightshades
aniseed and truffles
sea vegetables
and coconut
dirt and other aphrodisiacs