| from Thomas
I don’t know much about insects and that’s just about all I know for sure about me. The pearly junebug near my toes crawls impatiently toward the darker half of the room. Your hands are slender and radiantly veined, it makes me want to fold myself in half repeatedly until I could fit inside a crossword puzzle square. O I’d pluck those veins like harpstrings if I could. I glissando the dimming air as the junebug reaches the halfway point. * Still all you talk about are rocketships. The kind that arrive before anyone knows they’ve left. We will embellish the titanium with prison tattoos and rhinestones, and I’ll husk one sunflower seed for every day you’re gone. You’ll ask for chewing gum upon your return; I know it. How lovingly we checked that ship for leaks. * to go through and put a kink in every flower’s stem. when fragility goes unrecognized. just a crust of bread in a jacket pocket. you, too, Thomas were denied a bed. the room was a going into. windows frame paintings of pastures: fuzzy livestock dip their heads. snapping my fingers to. this denim organ continues, a coming out of. because we don’t abandon difficult books. |