wrapped in paper. and layer and layer
Not to inflict oneself
is dreadful. I know joy
is flat from the outside.
Perhaps it’s silly to want
a spectrum as full as a train.
At the station where I followed
you down, I heard the man
calling out to confess our sins. How
to hear him, to know he’s sound.
joy the secret hero is a straight-backed chair
the window doesn’t close at the particular
I love. The everything hedging makes
a pillar, pressurized. You, chalky day-
moon, top heavy, busty or bald.
You baseball bat metal, you
hills are a body part.
And the aimful part of you,
catalogued music. The secret’s
a table, your vision varnish.
New Year, a month late
I was told the ocean was a thin film.
Underneath was rock. I was told just
to create. We decided living wasn’t
the forward gaze. You smelled like this
when I loved you first – you smelled like my face
in our hair. The room filled up; I wanted
to be looking but judgment
sleeps lightly. At the point when we’re only conductor,
the energy collected by sight is enough to sustain.