ive got no pretty words to share,
or mirror brush strokes to spread.
only a running mouth
and a heavy gaze.
manuscripts of clammy hands
under a bass rhythm.
blood running into the
murk under a sherbet sky.

the dead poets would love us,
(if the seatbelt buckle fit, or if the fir tree
was felled) or maybe just you.
(because of the wildflower honey
scent or garden dirt stains on your
mind).
I've always wanted to wake in your
arms, like a butterfly from the
cocoon or child from
womb.

and I've always wanted you to
want me
(pommel fractures in a bitter
relation. pass the aux of your
heartbeat) but
you've forgotten how to heal in
antiseptic bandages.

oldies and bluejays
smell like birch trees and drenched socks
from slow dances in rain.

just read your own palm. you're
not ready.