A small picture
of a clenched fist
raised inside a lowered skull
pressed to a cold
Above where I broke
on the floor of a bedroom—
my lyrics replaced
with that of a
much lovelier song.
I kissed the stain I left her on the carpet,
looking deep into its fading tail.
(These sentences are pathetically
I shook the walls and clawed below
where the picture still hangs. Oh, god.
The sun might see me soon, perhaps
it already knows. She snuck down to
peek before edging back to where
music is a holy thing and I don’t belong.
Eyes travel. When you can lay
there. And write some. The moon
peeks now. Naked, from its cloud.
In New York City. My first time.
And you’re closer than you’ve
been in a real long time.
I would frame this, if I could, put it above
where I sleep now. In Florida. I’d
sing along to a clenched fist now open.
But a bird, I am, still. Still running
its face into the glass of a lovelier song.
Close to where I choose my words.
At a desktop. Before dreaming the sleep
of my ancestors, and falling deeply in love.