i tether myself 
to the bedpost with a shoelace
so i don't ceiling float again.
that's what night does to me--
tries to pry me away 
from rock & dirt.
the moon's gravity is getting
stronger everyday. soon it will
out weigh the sun's. i want to sleep
until my body is a pool
or fabric. cut me into
a robe. i'm measuring
everything by the acre from now on.
here comes an acre 
of night--swooping down
from its obelisk on the mountain.
i have grown tired of metaphors 
only living in poems. give me something
semi-permanent for once. 
i am a golden orchid. i am
a muddied clarinet. i am a dead bird
rising towards the sky graveyard
where all flying things 
rest between this world 
& the possible other. heaven
is covered in weeds.
really, the only thing i want
is to feet tangible. no 
not true. i want to dissolve
into the sweetness of bows 
& birthday table clothes. i text
the bears in the woods to meet me
later by the train station. 
i leave a message
on the answering machine of 
a honeysuckle bush asking if 
he intends to bloom again 
before the true frost. 
a cloud of gnats slip into my house
& write me messages with their bodies.
today they just spell
"late." do they mean it is
late at night? or do they mean
i am late for something? i guess
that could be the same thing.
late to my own quiet dark.
really, above all else
i am missing you. i am missing
what it meant to have my night
made translucent by another.
i feel myself rising--
lifting like a shopping bag
of grapes-- but the tether holds.
call me your brief balloon.
someday, will you eat my heart? 
the bears text back
but my phone is on the floor 
too far away to reach.
the honeysuckle is already gone.

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