six years

what have you done with the last six
years of the world being over?
i have purchased glasses of ice cubes.
i have kissed marbles/ been startled
by the urgency of a star.
i have road a bike backwards/ fallen.
i have eaten mulberries & undid
knotted coils of snakes in the stagnant pond
that is now in my throat, a pill.
of antidote will you tell me a better
story without a last page.
nothing's gotten softer yet. yes,
it takes time, the hard candy planet
tastes like strawberries laying
in sugar to die. how did we not notice? 
of course not with all the televisions 
this one was too loud-- the stock market 
becoming a moth tongue & our socks
un-sewing themselves carefully night
after night. i want to be the one
with the gorilla glue, the father
in the garage who picks up people
like stacks of nails/ blocks of wood.
are you a balsa body? the drill
in the chest, yes, yes this
will save us then. this will put
us back together. i go to work
on the clocks as well, the arms
bleeding, muscle wretched from bone--
socks strings pulling loose,
moths chewing wool. what time
are you setting your alarm in 
the morning? 
too early, yes too early. 
nails go from the box spring,
their roots, a following thing.
i am here running out of pine
needles. i am here pulling
the string to turn the orange
workshop light on, god in the corning
singing into a green bottle:
it's been a hard day's night
shooing away the moths that have
come for him. i ask how
he chose to end the world 
& he laughed & shook his head 
before nodding off to sleep again.
hand me the saw table, let's 
split the house right in half, 
right at the front door, sever door bell
sound. is six years too
long then? lay down & tell
me what your body has known in
the six years since
the world has ended. where were
you that night? how small &
how strawberry & how barefoot?