Bone blue prints I write
on paper napkins and  
in the back seat window
of my mother's blue station wagon.

No one means to fall in love
with an architect.
I'm sorry you got written 
into the blue prints but
you have to know I'm a poet 
of fictional floor plans-- I highly
intend to live in each of these futures--
grow old wrapped in the 
cartography veins of another
one of my 
road-maps unfurled on my mother's dashboard-- 
she drives me to Chingoteague--
holds her breath across bridges-- 
she wakes me up early from 
topographic nightmares
so I have time to trace our way back home from
another psychologist appointment 
where we read billboards like pro-logs--
I write out the trajectory of my bones with
steal beams of simile
-- of onomatopoetic assonance--
personify this park bench for us to kiss on
someday when I'm too old to 
say Iloveyou and too old to construct the outlines
of beach houses with a blue crayon-- 
I measure my stories by crafting the
shoulders of our walk-in closets--
tape-measuring our porch knuckle bones
kneading themselves
into cottages and clutched clumps of moss--
these femurs we'll bury with 
hand-shovels by the lake house
of neither of our grandfathers--
lay brick shins behind the eye-lashes
of evergreens-- 
You should know 
I drink warm mug handles and cup
people close to me like coffee mugs--
I start work late in the night/morning each day in a diner
that used to hurled bi-planes
over the quarry in Kutztown--
I labor over the blue prints for
houses no one will live--
I pick them up by their foundations
and push them like thumb tacs
all over a planet that has
only ever sat on a desk for me--
I live with you on
the coffee cake coast of Maine--
in a penthouse as tight as a knee bone--
we own an apple orchard and I bake
pies-- they cool on the back porch
still trembling-- steady as a rib-cage
but without as many bars--
I live in a toy shop window 
and you sew up my wrists even
when I burn them again and again-- I write
my daughter's name in the fog
of a back seat window so she 
can wipe away and become an architect 
just like her parent
I breath asphalt into the roads 
that clip belt buckles onto
the mountains we will climb
To shout new names into the 
pale face of the clouds-- 
I finish the day by folding my
paper napkins into triangles--
tight as the knee cap of our
apartment door in Manhattan--
I tuck them into the glove box of
my mother's blue station wagon
in case we get lost again on the way 
to Chingoteague or a psychologist
and the the back window forgets
her promises. 
Take out one and we'll follow
it like bi-plane tails. I'll
hold you like a coffee handle
and when your done you can walk
away-- wipe your name from the back 
window-- or hurl it into
the laughing face of a cloud.