Your heart

full moon





has grown old.
worn down by the lonelinesses
of a hundred empty homes,
sunken in
like fingers
fallen too long asleep
in a hot bath.

how else
do you show me
the moon,
its silky-
ink silhouette
stained on our back door,
and not kiss me?

there is no monitor
that measures
love. tell me: when
was the last time
it leapt?
got a running start
and just

jumped? heedless
of chasm, of canyon,
of distance?
of the finish,
the fear, the flatline?
your pulse
plays its thud-thump

through limp veins,
how to thunder.
if i could see you
the way the lightning
sees, from inside the storm,
i would find it

damp and dark,
with slow rivers
and huddled walls,
a crumpled fist
written with little scars
but untouched, too,
by moonlight.


il mio cuore selvaggio/ my savage heart

breathes uncertainly,
each seething beat
an inscrutable master
dancing over the graves
of my ill-sung epics and
leading me on hands
and rug-burned knees
through sunken grassblades and
gravelled shag, leaving me
curled up and fetal in the center
of a white-sheeted bed
too large
for a single person,
too small to hold me
from the nightmares of escape
that press into my back again
and again, fingertip-pulses
of flashing neon slipped
between shoulder blade and sinew,
laced tight into the wet hollows
of my soul,