When I wander the lining of your stomach
with longing, there’s a phone ringing weirdly, always
asking me to call you… Or maybe it’s not that at all
but a snow-body melting right next to my earhole,
some memory barking a command to come home?
No wonder you consider me moss, evergreen
and always, except for the sky, except
for the bloodwork and the vulture, O devil.
I believe full-throttle in a misspent paycheck.
The biggest ideas never right themselves sober,
and nor do the deer sounds that recede beneath
the treehouse, calling where are you and finding me
alone. Hello, I say often when I’m talking
to myself. You catch me in the flowerbed,
a rabbit in my belly. You catch me and puzzle me
and fill me with rocks, then send me off believing
in the ocean on a boat. There are so many things
I’d like to tell you how I’m feeling. There are so many
I would burn, if I could, into a note. The shadow
in my pocket asks to see my driver’s license.
I show it your picture, and it spits up a rose.
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