this kind of love sits
on the window sill &
waits to be let inside--
sings hollow boned--
sings sun birth &
stretch marks--
sings our clothing
crumpled on
my bedroom floor--
sings mis-matched 
socks & plastic
water bottle--
i sleep window-open
now-- fall out
& get up
again-- i crease
myself into a paper
airplane-- bruise
plum tree & peach skin--
i call
my brother & ask him
if he feels lonely
like this--
i'm not paranoid
you'll stop loving
me-- i'm paranoid
you'll say 
i love you without
meaning it--
that my window
will close 
& there i'll
be-- naked
& luminous in the 
heat of November--
i want to write
about the parts
of this body that
love me & 
kiss the parts that
don't--
this double-jointed
heart battering
the jukebox with
distorted guitar--
mouth rusted &
re-strung to
my father's 
four chord
progression down
the cistern--
silence is the game
of eating alone
& counting the calories
in my finger bones--
the game of wall paper
slicing-- crawling--
the underbelly of
the centipede pulsing 
my walls--
philia-- denoting
fondness--
an undue inclination--
this is the philia of 
my own body at
the windowsill--
robin read me a poem
with less about dying--
robin wake me up
in the morning
leave your feathers
in my mouth-- 
nest in the gutter
& rebuild oh rebuild
when it rains--
wash blue down
the drains--
the sky was only
another
window &
god looked down 
& wondered
what it took to make
a creature 
bursting with love
like this--
there is not enough
skin on 
my body to love
you in--
there is not enough
pill bottles
to hold my melancholia--
there is a phone call
away where you
sit on the
windowsill--
there are people
who love me
there are people
who love me 
& oh when
you kiss me 
let's fall out
of bed-- these
bruises are
only plums--