in 7th grade we dissected grasshoppers
with scalpels & pins to hold their
bodies open. hallways filled with hymolymph
for spreading oxygen & healing wounds.
i don't know what your voice sounds like
yet so i'm listening to the talk of critters
outside the window. they ask about what
they look like cut open. i tell them that
i saw recycled dead stars in their compound eyes.
now we share a formaldehyde drunk pumpkin seed heart.
i want to plant you in the walls of my room
& watch you turn ivy & green. i don't know what 
you could be to me, but i pulled over my volvo 
on the side of Cleaver Rd before
the one-lane bridge just to think about you--
about laying down together in the back seat
& opening the sun roof like a trap door 
to sky above clouds. that's where night comes
from, gossamer with the words of crickets.
what more can i tell you about me?