the suitecase full of violin bows.
horses that strung them with their tails
& their catastophes. i carry a measuring tape
to catelog the distances between stop
& signature. i always realize too late that someone
wanted to love me. one day their house is empty.
singing like a flute notch. she plays
with her own hair for comfort. she saves strands
like probable notes. write me a letter
in the key of C. every cord is made
of old bees & their intentions. between now
& collision i would like to eat fries with my hands.
wipe the grease off on my thighs. a mountain
strains to remember the flautline & the push
but stumbles on a written test. fill in the blank.
fill in the blank. we discuss fractiles
& their deepending futures. move the image
searching for a catch-able bird.
a delay can be the difference between a porch
& a podcast. the forks undrawer themselves demanding
hairdressers. when shouldn't have asked
for the large. why would we get the large?
in my hometown, everyone has a poem
they haven't written. mine is about obstructions.
a damn for the damn. logs piled like leg bones
in front of the only door. when i emerged
i was not the finally but the waited & waited.
in the yard, birds collect their feathers
like playing cards for a future game. i look
in the mirror & cover my face with one hand
then move it away.