pheromone machine

i fill my bike helmet with wildflowers
& drive across the bridge to where
all the bodies live. bodies in their
holes in the wall & their tree knots 
with their laundry flapping in the wind.
i take my eyes off & put them in my pocket.
speak in poems with the hopes that
doves will come & flock to my mouth.
to be hungry for hunger. to want to be
a jewelry store inside someone else's
imaginary wedding. come & get me 
i think & static leaves me ears. swarms 
of bees that live in my heart making honey
for no one but themselves. i do not know
what i would do with a body if i got one.
i guess rather if one would have me.
they make devices these days for people
like me who want to be a salt lick.
deer ride motorcycles. an owl pulls out
a gun & i raise my hands to say,
"i am just in love." he sighs & scoffs,
"as if!" i know it is true. love is not
a barrel to sit in but the balloon string 
you hold & follow. i am not good at that
or whatever else bodies do. i come home
without even a freckle. an arcade replaces
my house which is alright by me i guess.
the bodies come & go. my bones were made
for doorways. for going this way. for
spitting on the side of the trail.
i hold out my hand & a wasp stings me
right in the middle of my palm. 
stigmata comes in many forms i guess.
please though, if you hear the machine 
call me. call me & say, "i love you"
even if you don't. especially if you don't. 

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