the view out our hotel window

across the parking lot; wendies
red flushed cheeks. the gas station
put on white 6inch heels. the buildings
standing to amble home, the knots
in their neck, that's where they
hold the stress. i pushed 
myself from the window last night
& fell upwards into lightning's teeth, 
yoyo string body.
this is where my long hair went.
this is where you took off your braces
to make a bridge across staten island.
the glass, an artery, open/shut/open/
shut & the rain is a shower head,
steam becoming ghost over skin.
where the neon signs made tattoo.
looking out the window you hold me
& i build a cottage in between
the parking lot trees, their waists
aching in the asphalt. i plant
african violets & tell you a story 
about my mother. my mother is
a parking space. park in my lines,
white & parallel & the 6inch heel.
when we leave we will take it down, 
the cottage i mean, we will load
each burlap brick into the trunk 
& when we leave
the window will account to herself
the presence of our bodies, the humans
with the urge to fall without existing
as rain. on the drive here you read 
me two poems aloud & i saw the words
become six-legged & moth wing.
soft & dissolvable.
you held my hand at 75mph, as fast
as a window. i fall out again.
the other hotel, a hampton, turns
around to glare back at us. the cottage
a box of matches now. this is a certain
kind of home. i will leave an address
here with you, if nothing more,
postcards piled in a parking space.
taking off the 6inch heels &
hurling them. the spotlights ducked,
a subway wrapper teaches itself 
to violet fold. i plucked
it out for you & i'm pressing it
in between the sill & the glass.
can we open it?
no, it's sealed shut.
could have broke it with a 6inch
white heel, instead,
we lingered, pulled the blankets
from the beg & slept again
the cool glass, parallel,
petrichor prism. red girl
oh rain.