When I speak and nothing happens,
nothing changes, my very very bird.
My mnemonic sweat laps against the window slats
in the dream of another’s making.
Place your forehead against my forehead and we’ll
see who sweats first. Unintentional separation. The tongue
of memory licks my ear, takes some version of forever
to dry. You are a tall tree, a feathery tree, my very very tree.
Your leaves are fly swatters. Half baby blue, half navy blue,
the sky rushes in. The old skiff, run ashore and stripped,
has been designed to fit mind’s jalousie windows.
We play Throats & Chimes in the parlor
over expensive cubes of ice.
Irreparably, you belong here, in this cool
below. Admiring your velvety roots, I tell myself
I own my toe’s wiggle, can see it tingle right there
in front of me. Pulsing white oval kisses. Oh, your bucket
of warm water, with its splash of vinegar!
You wipe the windows down obsessively, increasing
your schein. I sink deeper into my wooden chair,
which gives and gives the way suspicions do.
The wooden screws replaced by metal in the name of permanence.
So it will never come apart again. So never again apart it will come.
Carefully, I listen for it. Endless patience, melts away.
Out the window, the dark earth has been eviscerated
by worms never touched by the hands of children.
And yet, the effect is most meaningful here
when detected in low concentrations.
The bird buried alive during a heavy rain. A cartilage rain.
The inexorable wings.