the book is coming very soon
more news soon
and we haven’t left the moon
because the mourning dove makes the saddest songs..
fingers-crept-spider-like into the crevasse
of my palm. i couldn’t
(breathe) now, not when the lights were coming on,
glowing as dumb and warm
as sleeping eyes
shut tight. we never did touch.
’cause you were as blue as a madman
and she was shooting sparks
and i sitting sullen as a covered moon,
breathing in, breathed out
a tide like deepest night. maybe, come morn,
we’ll stumble out, go beach-comb
for our broken bones
until the damaged children between our temples will be
born again with fiery skin.