Been Half a Year

without jumping through smoke
rings to find a trap
door you hint may lead
to solace. I imagine dropping

into a room filled with easy
breathing naked apes. I like my air
not so conditioned, like
to check those back

burners to ensure the pilot
light hasn’t died
with a summer breeze
that got too big

to ignore. Dizzy with oxygen,
I remember that boy who smashed
his fist through a glass pane

in our French door—so desperate
to escape 1969 bedroom
community ennui. One bloody wrist, a siren,

and that blue
cold stillness in his eyes. Now I could
just laugh

at these green candles
someone might ignite
if they want to.

In Situ

Her nervous system’s high
whine, his circulating blood a low
hum, their silence won’t come
the way they imagined
under these rafters at dawn. This return
to audible reality—a compulsion
to let the breath be known—weighs
on her as she steps off the back
porch. Onto pavers seeping
mud, her feet adjust to the sway. The rain
did not stop, but that wasn’t it.
Her disappearance completes
the arc of narrative
in light better than words.

Onion Peel (Day 2,582)

A nose gets cut. Bandaged.
His nose. Not for me
to know how. He does bleed 

real blood to match
the true color of his song.
I don’t know how. All bodies 

frighten me
with their precious mechanisms.
The way they break down— 

His, mine. It can be
too much to bear. My desire
drains blue.