The crush ...

Maybe I'll die.

Maybe I'll live

In your hands for a

While. I'm too small

To just call out the order

“Cherish me, soft, full of paint.”

Oh, the murder is nothing but a twitch:

Without hate (a cow's tail), without fear (a foot

Sunk bare in the grass),    just an itch and its crackling

Satisfaction. As I land, all on impulse     (to wick from your

Sweet-oil   salt-water   skin), you will rend me  or set me air-borne

     With a brush  before you know me. My God – you are beyond my understanding                    .

             Your horror, your grace (your reaction at all) makes my feet feel thunderous  just landing.

Trickle down ...

One time, I thought near

       Every window in space:

              So close I could jump, could feel the breeze

                      In my throat.

                               Needed to be clear –

                                    To know that I could be off

                                       Of the designed path head-first, then be blank

                                           And nothing –

                                              All aired, the sense climbs

                                                Back in, fresh and tender, still

                                                 And just, thoughtless as a head can be: brain-gone,

                                                  spilled loving.

                                                  Sometimes – just sometimes

                                                  My heart gets big and slow and

                                                  Every part of me feels blended together:

                                                  That's called hope.

                                                  :)

Eyes bath ...

I jump back out

                                        To that same cradled,

                    Swelled discontent

                               Twitch-quick when

                   These pins dart into me,

                                                           Doc: let them stay.

(that shaking glint –

                    I swear that I

                                 Am fighting

                                        Myself to stay in it.)

                               So real, too real

                       At first to lie

In long – ice bath

              White, those clear

                          Crystal-cracking eyes play

                    Deeper than they

                              Touch, quicker than

      They move, sharper

    Than they seem

(sliding up leg skin, smooth).

                   Around & through

                    (all you do &

                All I tremble

         Feeling). Move

     Into the bath you make.

       Tell me I dream

   The loud cold worse

    Than it is: that

 It heals what

Swells. Ground me with your smile.

  Spin your tendrils

Around my skin:

  Make it tingle.

Make me crawl

Up into me again.

Lizzy ...

I stretch-stepped down the runway

   Toward the end of that night

        While cleaners chased the dust up

           (Way too soon). And past the light

            At the end of my glass catwalk, saw

           Standing alone in that purple shade,

       Gazing, the straight-faced daughter

  Of a down-bent vacuum maid.

  Instead of turning back again,

       I reached around behind my dress

           And found a silk rose on the hem.

            I left the back a jagged mess

           Just so I could weave that flower,

         tickling soft, behind her ear.

   "Mine, your mother's, my seamstress'

Hearts all skip for you, my dear."

Dear Unknown ...

Caught my face

In the reflection of this computer screen

When it went black.

Shook my head

At these guilty hands, checking again

for a message.

I wasn't made

For this wall between us, my unknown.

I wasn't made

For this wall

They call a screen, and fill with colors

That look deep

And fast. That

Look bright and – honestly – real,

More or less. I

Was not made

To touch this wall and want you.

I was made to

Hear letters

Falling warm off your tongue

in a field, or

a hall, or –

Fuck it – an alley, full of

real garbage

and puddles

and pebbles and mud

that smell like

life to be

and death having

been & ended.

Had you sent

me a message,

it all would

have been

pretend-

ed.

Savior to savior ...

Vine.

You are mine.

 Just this time, and not for long,

   caught you hanging

    from the sky

       as wind ran fluting

      around my ears,

       a rushing song –

          some “Yoooouuuu

            areGoin'toDieeee...”

         half-truth, like

       most I think

       I hear.

          But

              then you struck

                  an arm, cut my scream: I held

                        you (dangling

                            severe as I,

                               beyond the tree rings,

                                 fell). Still faller,

                                 You hold me well

                               and tighter

                               than the air: I fly

                                  in a swing

                                       (your creak, my

                                           holler,

                                              Our

                                             balanced hour).

                                            Nothing now destroys but joy:

                                                you crack, stretching

                                                        in my grip,

                                                          while I tire, squeezing

                                                              your twining green.

                                                                No hand nor pain

                                                               feeling,

                                                                 my trembling slip

                                                                begins: our

                                                                coming fall

                                                                 becomes

                                                                care-

                                                              less

                                                            be-

                                                         tw

                                                        ee

                                                          n.