sun tempered thru finch cloth

there are nevers
that come to be
sort of like inevitable
knock across wood.

a bit of superstition
that keeps the magic alive.

if you miss twenty again
then look in all the pockets

don't move the stove until the last
cookie's baked.

i have done nothing for two days.
my words are on vacation. i'm keeping fine.

there's a bass line building
in my back yard. its undercurrent

like a phantom future hoping
into now. the sun moves brilliantly

outside and i curl under the feathers
you bought. i dreamed of you this morning

you lived in ft. lauderdale with lashes
and long hair. a tow truck pickup to lakeland

where all the new construction halted due
to the falling financial market. i remember

the way the empty shells of concrete and glassless
windows were lined with insulation. sliver with massive

navy blue letters, i want to say GM but that's wrong
you pulled over to the side of the road, got out

confronted me where i rode in the back, talking
to you on the cell. i didn't know it was with you

that i rode. i didn't know why you called
in the first place. the thing about dreams is how

tangible they are when you can recall them, after waking.
we didn't touch and i never found out why. but i didn't ache.

that's something now, isn't it? i told her yesterday
i am a balloon held by an invisible thread. only slight

vibrations reach me so far into this stratosphere. only
the hum of the washer, the swish of the broom. she said

write a poem. i tried but i lost it. it's ok tho, paper
doesn't crash and bits even less. i'm at the verge of ashes

ember is my grey cat's real name. she admits this by curling
into my legs when i sleep. a purr escapes. she's happy i know.

when so many add to the ocean
little drops of used to be/s dissolved

solution of ablution, castaway conclusions.
the way my stomach heaves when hoped.



















*)(&&&












it used to be enough
and although it still could be


i want to wend into no need
like a creek, you know, or to the sea.


you get annoyed with me when everything
becomes a metaphor. including this piping

where the ice cream truck like some soundtrack
from when we woke up in a yellow grazing morning

lamely blares down this street we never saw.
you play oblivion with yourself. you take your kids

to the haunted hayride and swear that you'd phoned
2x.in the comedy i watched this morning she also was buying

the things he said without reason, when it was obvious
he must have just said those things because he didn't want

to talk about what went wrong, about her face
without makeup, about the way he wanted her once but could

not, now, remember why. just an ikea in columbus. that
and a teamster sandwich to make her life a perfect maybe.

and his a goodbye baby. the call that never came
until the next season when he's just gonna hurt her again.