between the rails and the river (keep swimming, girl.)

there’s a sun tangled mid-
winter in the confines
of your eyes, spilling out

over the rocks like sick
solace or liquid
lust & trestled between

either shallow
bank as if it alone
owned the hour-

glass dripping
sand into our shoes
& under our

pretenses but
i’m in love
with silhouettes,

you get lost in
the separation cry of
down-stream currents

and there are still
shadows in this un-
plumbed ever.

déjà vu

sometimes i
ache
for the darkness,

turn my eyes
before the ocean of his
mouth

has d(r)ied
on my
lips,

remember
distinctly
the thick taste

of charcoal sucked
through the brown
slatted shades

that hid sunshine
from the secrets
inside.

there are scalpel-
scars still on
flushed flesh,

mirror-marks
of time that
doesn’t pass,

connective tissue
knotted into daisy-
chains of white tomorrows:

where waters whisper
of salt and rust,
there is yet

frost
to come.
i accustom

myself
to the sound
of endings, learn

to hold my hands
close(d). sleep
is the natural

consequence
of over-
dreaming,

an exhaustive
star-eyed
lumbering

collapse. sometimes
i think i
think too much.

quarter past two

 

An owl-
eyed moon hangs
low like overripe fruit,
menacing the hot
horizon with her glowy
berth. Sweat
beads on the skin
of rooftops, perspiring
night-dreams of a dirt-nailed
city bent on creating
itself. The river drowses uneasily.
It smells
like jungle, and sex.

There is good mud here, and this
is no time for sleeping indoors.

Wild things
etch their names into wet
downtown cement, pile
old bricks into hillforts
from which they fling love
songs at one another
and think slyly of revolution.
Laughing, we
shake the moondust
out of wind-blown hair
and run to catch
the current,
kiss the river
goodnight.