Rome falls


The perfect storm looks like this:

A body, warm, his. Back to chest,
pull my heart through the ceiling.


Are you accidental—Temporary?
                                                                        Does the moon sink in your skin;
                                                                       are the daffodils talking again?   


Somewhere, I put on the face,
you put on the laughter, pretend
we’re more put together, less


jigsaw pieces—jammed together
more, gutting up the floorboards
and hiding from each other.                   


I touch you, a violence, an undoing.          

                                                           Center of you: a molten mess,                                                                             we are lava cooling, white ash, snow.


In a thousand years, they’ll dig us up,
a preservation not unlike Pompeii.

Here is the girl, the bed unmade,
a river of hair, 

the fire in the living room
still burning.
It is quieter up here in my head.


[This silence]                                                  


                                                       As if, something were about to happen, 
                                                       Is happening, happened.

Prelude to War


Picking flowers, plucking petals,

another lifetime, another century.
Give me green fingers,

everything I touch,
browns, falls—


This is all drone sky—
Marsh of my heart, humid.

What path have you taken,
you lost
lost creature you,

what day are we on now?

& we’re planting limbs
in the garden,
an arm shooting up, here—

Look at all this gangrene,
so sick of all this
new millennia green.

& always the crow-eye
watching me
from the willow tree;


How you are pulling milk
teeth, spilling blood
into rivers
& playing
with your fingers. No.

No magic.
No pull.

The dead do not rise
because you will it to. 

I lay the dreamer down—
This is no time to be soft.
This is no time to be soft.


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In the past I’ve researched certain myths, certain animals.