for who the flowers bifurcate 

i can grow as many heads as i need.
some of them are ugly & others
are as beautiful as they need to be.
a man walking down the street
takes my picture & eats it. he is 
the owner of a newsletter that goes out
to the stones. i crouch in the late-season flowers:
the mums & the golden rod who are
experts at farewells. they show me their necks.
each, a choice of where & how to breathe
despite the cold nights & despite the smell
of grass screaming. we got new neighbors 
this summer. i hide from them. i pretend 
i do not live here which is mostly accurate.
i buy a rose bush with long long legs. i pull
the curtains shut when i have to
sprout a face. i buy grass seed & eat it.
it tastes like fatherhood. 
you can get so good at it. there is nothing left 
beneath the fork. the string cheesing
of the road where it divides & becomes
not one but two ways to get lost.
i sent a letter to the neighbors. inside is
a morsel of seeds. i am wondering if they do
the same. wrap themselves in the curtains.
keep a drawer full of all the faces the highway
asks of them. in a small town, i am 
a snow globe. in a big city, i am a lava lamp. 
at home i am a "no vacancy" sign on top
of a vacant motel. i pick the golden rod
& make a tea. it helps soothe my crossroads spirit.
in the dark, all the lights look like eyes. 
my house & my neighbor's house get into
a staring contest until one of us gives in.
it is always me. in the dark 
the flowers all look like tires. i rode home
from a purple door on the back of a motorcycle.
he didn't know my body but he know
my neck. where i split. the leather was fresh.
the moon did not show her face at all.