the broom and a happy tear

forever, the cigarette pretending to
be a lover on the beach,
the rain trying on discount suits
before an elaborate mirror,
our faces painted,just like before,
and I remember the water and the
other places the poets refused to walk-
paper turning the headboards into
mist and my grandfather’s face
arguing with the door, tempted, but
not afraid in the sand,
here we are once again, my love, with
a kiss in the downpour and a
thousand words parked on the sides
of streets we have yet to see,
quiet, the songs smelling like memory,
turning roses into dandelions and
back again before someone weeps
and learns about quantum milk and
the dances we’ve never forgotten, the
broom and a happy tear, waiting
for the other side of the morning
to gather its flowers and construct
its pyramids for the goddesses and the saints,

may, I think

the ghosts
for you
a brand
set to help
you better
the way
the mountain
teaches us
the secrets
of bliss
and erosion
in the
houses of
and the
dodging of
bullets and
the quiet,
once again.

dressed as molecules

she keeps forgetting about
the sphynx that collects
the dust of bones,
the aged man wearing
a schizophrenic crown
of beautiful rust and milk
–my mother, my father,
the growth of hormones
in the water dressed
as molecules, forgetful
in their sundresses,
she, and all others,
forget, with utter

the rose bush

the forrest calls my name
but my ears were pigeons
discussing politics and copulation,
wasting time, waiting for the
moon to remember my sanctuary
and where it ended up.

-these walls have dreamed you-

the intense colors of these trees,
these yellows and these greens
that I cannot paint,
raising themselves through the sea,
blinding the quiet man, and
letting us watch in silence,
thinking of frozen bus rides and
June beginning the rest of our lives
for us:

“here we stand with the rose bush
behind us, sirens and thorns, and all.”

oranges (for Ethan)

like the eruption of flames
in a nighttime garden,
I have forgotten to put my
soul on the market and
weep for the plaster
saint’s tired caccoons,
as I continue to gather
oranges for Ethan and the
talkative and drunken sunflowers,
listening to the wisdom
of an army ant, talking you
to sleep, like the films
burnt into the aging sides of
houses with taste buds
living inside, watching us
as much as we were
watching them, not once
sharing an orange,
until now.