did i catch you in my fishnets?

& did you thrash?
skin & scale--
the school of tuna
with their pencils
in their mouths-- writing
poems about non-conformity 
on the bellies of
the blue whales--
skin graffiti under-
water where the sun is
a bleary-drunk dream
& you felt
me around you--
constricting-- black
mesh squeeze body--
try to kiss me
through the net--
you were the dolphin i
snagged by accident--
the one we pointed 
at from the shoreline--
blue back flashing
between wave
& sun & no 
one believed
in you-- we swore
you were just another
swell or a mermaid 
tempting
us to swim
out past the sand bar--
laughing with
the round bellies of
the gulls--
i waded in
neck-deep & that
was when
i caught you &
you never asked
to be let go--
i'm a emerald-gleaming
python-- 
grip tightening
while you inhale
& inhale until
there is no room
for air
& of course you
grew gills for
me-- pulled
us under water where
no one has
a face & salt sting
in your eyes--
love is blinded &
ripe-tide torrent--
here is where
blue became blue--
snagged 
on a cloudy day 
where there were
at least vaporous 
bodies
to jostle into--
if you hadn't been
so graceful  out
there-- skin 
evincing sun 
revealing the beautiful
simplicity of
our tiny tiny
sky-- so close
that the dolphins
swim on into it
when humans get
bored
of searching for
them on the horizon--
i took my fish nets
off leg by leg
& let them float
off into the water--
i missed them--
the way the
world swarmed 
me when i showed
how easy it
would be for 
a big fish to
swallow me-- my tight
skin & tune-fish scales--
school thrumming
on either side--
i feel the others
in my stomach--
the pulse of
their oceans 
growing quieter--
how long
did it take you
to remember the school
of fish who once 
formed your body?
do you still remember
becoming whole again?
all those gaping
lid-less eyes blinking
in the reflection
of the moon
on the water--
she rises-- fish-net
faced & dripping--
picks us up
in her pale hands
& asks us
what boys & girls
are doing swimming
out past the sand bar
in december--
blue-lipped & marbel
skinned-- 
you mistook yourself
for god &
i mistook myself
again for
a fisher of men--
nets growing back
across
my legs like
ivy-- like vine--
like the good slut--
i hope you
get
caught again--
i liked it when
we were tangled 
so close--
straining in 
the blood-shot
eyed sun--
my father
lines his beer
bottles
up by the side
of the bed-- 
my mother-- cuts
off my fish-
nets & knows
they 
will grow back--
oh lover--
will you
learn what
it means to
be narrow
with me?

what day is it?

no i don't mean
day of the week
or #
i mean what day 
is it?
what did the
stars tell you
when they perched
on the telephone
wires?
they laughed & 
dropped feathers
that were also snow--
did you open
your mouth to catch them?
what day is it?
is this the day 
you start sleep walking
again?
meandering
up the side road
& into the carcass
of that house
with boarded up
windows-- some
days i feel like
a house with
boarded up windows &
feral cats
living in 
my ankles-- dandelions 
burst through my
floors-- reaching--
yearning to become
trees or telephone
wires
so they could
listen to the
conversation i had
with friends from
fifth grade
when you had to wait
till 9am to use the
home phone--
practice your greeting
in the reverberation
of the bath tub &
her mirrors--
what day is it?
is today the day 
i jumped out
the second story
window-- or the one
when i climbed
up on our slanted roof
& wondered if
the fall would break
me &
i tumbled down
scale & shingle--
is today the
day i slept
on the scratchy carpet
of my bed room?
joints burning
like apples-- how
red was my sunrise
& how many of
my conversations
are still living in
the telephone wires?
somewhere i am
asking Karl to come
over so that we
can play with my 
new video camera--
yank movies
from backyard--
we will someday 
be great film directors
& if not then
of course we will
be myth busters &
we will be on the discovery
channel-- painting
the global-logo
in the bottom left-hand
corner of the screen--
when i wake up i will
take the boards off
the windows
so the sun can be
as vermilion & vicious
as it wants--
follow the faded
pages
of the sidewalk--  
one way that i 
track down the day is
by checking a book
out from the library--
they'll have to use 
the rubber stamp--
turning to the back  
pocket i will
follow the numbers
until i find the day 
this particular book
will be late 
because i in fact
am at least consistent
in my lateness of
library books--
is it that day then?
the day a library 
book was late?
the day you were late
again to come
visit but oh
how it made me
love you harder--
i beg you to trust
is people with
overdue
library books &
just know they're trying--
i'm trying--
today is a day i'm
trying & i'm sorry 
for the maraschino-cherry
morning & 
the laughing of
the stars &
the crows 
eating poison berries
from my hair--
i'm trying-- 
yes today i'm trying
trying to tight rope
balance-- your
knees were river rocks--
you made fun of
me for saying 
you wrists remind
me of door knobs--
i'm sorry-- i
was only trying
to find a way  to say
that you are the
door i always want
to open--
that you can 
twist me--
take your
shoes off on
the porch--
today might have
been the day that
we turned each
other-- 
i could be mistaken--
it's been at least
seven over due
library books
since i've seen 
you--
if you happen
upon a telephone
wire & you hear my
old voice i
would want her to
know
i'm trying &
i want you
to know 
i'm trying 
& today is a day--
i'll wait 
laying on
the carpet--
stomach towards 
the moon--
what kind
are you?

they'll call you goldilocks &
you'll eat cold porridge

& they'll call
you goldilocks when
you cry your
eyes red &  
climb up
the carpet staircase
to the forest--
your hair is neither
gold nor silver but
a dull-straw blonde
from bleaching
it one too many times--
your feel like 
kindling-- like
another bundle
of sticks & you'll
assume heaven is 
in one of 
those boxes
in the attic-- the
ones we never
bothered to unpack
even though we've lived
on noble street
for decades now--
grip the banister
& say a pray sent
from your blue DS--
from PictoChat--
a plea
scrawled in electronic  
ink-- are
there any saints
for you to
send messages to?
do they write back?
you can flip
your screen around
& use it as
a flashlight
while you search
for the light switch
all four
up the attic stairs 
to the forest
with the little cottage--
smoke pouring
from chimney-- 
you're hungry--
you're hungry
like all girls
with hair
made of kindling 
with game-boy-lit
faces with
11:11 wishes 
sticky-note written
on the bed room
walls-- 
does your god
feed you?
you're hungry 
for porridge &
saints & reaching
into card board
boxes to see if your
mother packed away
heaven up there--
in tissue paper or
maybe in the crate
with all the 
porcelain dolls 
still in their
wilting boxes--
you find a house
in the woods as
the story goes--
as the story always has
gone-- 
your body
walks in 
the front door
without you-- 
this time
you eat the cold
porridge because
you want to feel sorry
for yourself 
& you know 
the mama bear won't
mind-- she's used
to sharing--
you can't eat it
all even though
you're still hungry--
hungry
like the bare-naked
plowed
fields that bristle
like your own
haphazardly shaved
thighs-- 
corn husk & stalk--
you're not
sure what you're hungry
for 
so your skin
looks for a resting
place & sits
in the smallest
chair because
you've heard the
story before &
you know you
have to break
it to pieces--
up the creaky stairs
to the bed room
you lay on the hardest
bed & tuck
your knees into
your chest--
ribs press on
wood press on the
thumb print of
your skeleton--
what use is heaven
in the bottom
of a card board box
& there the forest
grew thick & 
hungry--
& you wait for
the bears to
come-- to come
eat you up--
to come bite
your straw hair--
dry & brittle--
to find heaven we
will have to give
into the teeth & to
the open windows
& to the cold porridge
on the kitchen counter--
share with your mother--
she is only trying to
help--
the bears aren't
coming-- this is your
own attic & 
you light your DS screen--
your own bed is hard
& beneath you
the rocking
chair shattered--
shards still stuck
in your spine-- oh
they will call you goldilocks
& you will knock
over a box of forest--
heaven was not
found in
a day 

hand-sanitizer & other
alternatives to
holy water 

cuticle-sting-- 
clamor-- din in
each paper cut
compromise left in
my hands-- oh 
if you do not
have holy water or
a church you can
visit 
you can always
substitute hand-
sanitizer-- across
your palms & round
your wrists--
that's where the 
germs try to
creep back up your hand 
again & in middle school
that was when everyone
started to worry
if they were sanitary--
did we go
mad in the white neon
across linoleum?
we each wondered
how we managed to 
get so dirty &
i stood
front & center
to the baptismal
foundation each
Saturday mass to
dip middle & index 
finger in cold 
water-- lady bug
floating
to the surface--
drowned in
the veins of god--
take your hand sanitizer
& make the sign of
the cross--
your forehead--
cross your heart twice
for safe keeping--
how did we get
so open-mouth
dirty? 
& i would feel
the cool gel--
aseptic & lucid
in between my fingers--
fingers dry &
sidewalk-cracking--
winter smudged 
my finger prints 
& poured 
hand sanitizer over
my long brown hair 
& in the girl's 
bathroom i would
stand-- soaking
paper towels 
in hand sanitizer
& dabbing them
between each stand--
they girls had
said i had greasy 
hair-- that i
should wash myself
more & 
as they said
this my nose prickled
with their sterile
holy-water
small-- palms
& wrists--
burn me clean--
singe each 
fiber of hair
until the baptismal
fountain over flows
& the floor
of the church is
slippery
& the lady bugs
gasp for
air-- here's the 
thing
about holy water
& hand sanitizer--
they only leave
you feeling like
you need to
wash again &
again & again
& back then 
i would take three
showers a day
in the hopes the
other girls would
survey
my body one
day &  find me empty--
prisitine
enough to her skin
alone--
if you do not
have holy water
the pain throbbing
in your frayed fingers
is worth 
immaculation--
the process of
learning that there
is no part
of a girl's body
that is allowed
to not 
hum with dull
pain--
oh & the boys were
dirty too
& in 7th grade
we all 
sanitized
the cuts-- 
peeled away  
scabs to 
let blood seep
into the baptismal
fountain 
how dare you let
god see
you so like
this-- your blood
in the water
will bring sharks
oh i say
let them
come-- i'm
unclean & 
am un-needing of
a substitute for
holy water--
my god has
soil under
his finger-nails--
that's where 
he grew me--
black asphalt
girt &
backyard
muck
if you are
out of holy water
you can substitute 
the rain puddles
in the 
driveway--

how weightless?

i ran my white shoes
to pieces-- 
soul peel-
ing free-- rubber
tearing & laces
gripping tightly
to a god of double
knots & gravel trails--
white-knuckles & desperate
i pulled them off
to rest in
the corner-- mud
caked in their teeth--
they tell each other
stories of 
the taste of
sidewalks & the 
wet love of august
rain-- heavy with
my coat-hanger body--
i listen but
i don't ask questions--
will they remember 
the time we all
sat as one
perched on the limestone
rocks towards
north lookout--
will they remember
my fear of snakes
& the boy who 
i loved the idea of--
when i fall
asleep will they 
tug each other's
tongue to whisper--
recount the first
times i wore them-- 
their skin tense 
with holding me as
we learned to run--
what kind of lover
teaches you how
to escape-- 
to sprint
into tabernacle 
forest--
unafraid of
never returning--
i could never
dispose of them--
my white sneaks--
stones lodged
in their teeth-- 
laughing again 
about how often
i tripped on the gritty
shores of Maine
where we stepped
& snapped blue sea glass
beneath us--
i'm always like this
i can never part 
with shoes & at
my parents
house i have a closet 
full of such ghosts--
clamoring over
each other-- searching
for their mirror-halves--
grey boots &
bear-foot slippers 
& orphaned flip-flops
& my first pair
of chuck taylors--
sharpie scribble
poetry & street
chewed shoe laces--
there are questions 
i am saving for
them each--
like if they could feel
the weightlessness
in the way a seven
year old girl walks
& how many times
i listened to Sargent
Pepper & if
i was only a refraction
of rainbow light
gleaming from
the surface of a CD--
maybe they get
each other's stories
confused from sitting
there for so long--
maybe my grey suede
boots forget 
pink gum on the 
floor of the mall--
forget sweaty 
feet of spring--
do my chuck taylors
remember the 
ecstasy of a distortion
peddle & Dad
trying to teach us how
to work the hi-hat--
do they hum with
their thread-bare
tongues--
link laces &
share the same
exhilaration of 
carrying a body--
i know 
it is inevitable
that i will
eventually
have to get rid of
them all & their
thin faces
& chapped lips--
that eventually
their stories
will
blur into
my own callous
heels & my
new shoes
doe-eyed & wide-open
in the headlights
of a skeleton
like mine-- still
picking thumb tacks
from his heels--
clasping me
they plead
for us
to take a walk--
to run &
teach them 
the bell chime of
my knees--the 
quick pace of my
breath thick
with frost--the 
heaviness of
the clouds coming
to perch on my shoulders--
i know
the way they
gather
of stories
is also 
their fixed trajectory
toward the back of the 
closet-- the corner
of the room
just like my
white sneakers 
still 
rambling
about 
the tops of
mountains--
will you sleep
when i do?
will you 
tell me what
ground my feet
belong?
keep my soul
from thinning--

staring

re-learn how
to blink--
kiss windows--
inhale backwards--
descend skyward
& take me with you--
i feel myself 
dying again &
it starts with the
rancorous creases
of my white bed room
walls 
today i'm wildly sick
of snow & all of
it's cliches-- 
i lay hover in
my room-- eyes
peeled open by the 
gaping mouth
of death-- his laugh
a kind of fear that
turns bodies
into wind chimes--
perched in every corner--
he smiles &
eats a bag of 
popcorn
while he surveys my
routine-- my 
hurried scribbling
of poem fragments--
rolling out my pink
yoga mat to 
try to tame my skin
& my heart--
i flurry like
the snow-- uneven--
sporadic
& when i was seven
i remember the thrill
of pressing the first 
tiny foot print in
the back yard 
piled with snow-- a
pristine metaphor
for innocence or something
like that--
opened my mouth
let ice crystals
land on
my tongue-- 
parachutes 
deployed & 
melting fast-- they
said their farewells 
as they slide 
down my throat--
some survived to pose
on my glasses & 
freckled cheeks
before slipping
into water--
did i think about
death then or
is this a new thing?
is it because i'm gay?
& will i slip
into water
on the asphalt 
in the morning?
i keep my head
down when i leave
out the back door--
ignore the snow
as if it's symbolism
can't touch me 
if i don't give it
any attention--
oh all that romance--
each individual 
fragment of frost
sacrificing themselves
on my cheeks--
i want to turn
the sun down
like a volume knob 
so that i can 
pull the blinds shut
& sleep this all away
oh death with 
his blankets &
his blank stare--
i have to watch him
i have to watch him
or he'll move
from the corner--
open his cracked
lips to laugh at me--
laugh the back porch with
storm-- laugh
my windows open
& laugh the freckles
off my face-- back
into snowflakes
where they came from--
where is the blizzard
i was born in
& is she still watching--
will she come back
for me when my time
comes to blink 
long & forever?
i step outside--
close 
eyes-- lift my
head & open
my mouth--
the snow tastes metallic
like blood
& aluminum foil

if we teach
resurrection to the polar bears

we didn't pray hard enough--
that was of course the issue
as it always is with
humans & their plastic
six-pack rings floating
out to form an
island in the bubbling
gulf of mexico-- the
witch's cauldron--
waves hissing & 
bursting from heat--
cooked flesh of the red snapper
& black-nose shark
rise to the surface--
the fishermen crunch bone
& scale from the deck--
yes but i'm a vegetarian--
this is the kind of violence
meant for meat eaters
& their selective love
of animals they think will
love them back &
yesterday i saw a 
polar bear with
the body of a marionette--
dangling & languid--
strings knotted
in the clouds as they
drifted cautiously above
the naked plain--
no this is the sins
of bone-marrow drinkers
& no of course
we didn't pray enough--
we didn't pray enough
we didn't put out
enough recycling
bins & last week that
one time i
took my plastic diet
coke cap & i dropped
it out the open window
of my car--
oh humans &  your plastic 
souls-- your plastic
tongues &
plastic-bag lungs 
inhale deep-- you
must take as much air
as you can for yourself--
we must of course
do what we do best &
teach the last polar bear
about resurrection--
glass hotel bibles &
aluminum hymnals
we'll walk from
here to the arctic 
circle on floating
blue recycling bins
because the vegetarians 
know that plastic
water bottles 
are just another 
part of the circle
of life of melting &
down again &
again-- 
that's what god does
with humans after all--
sorts their 
green or brown
or
clear-glass souls
clicking as they're
tossed-- some of
us shatter on
heaven's concrete
floor & we still
feel the fissures--
reduce 
re-use
recycle me lover
where are we going
& how will we
convince the 
polar bear to
believe in god
& his empty
caves?
blow lips
over glass bottle
rim to summon
the gulls--
when we arrive 
we sing the hymns
we still remember
from our Catholic 
days-- ave ave 
ave maria-- 
one bread one body
--break
glass & crush metal
what use is
an animal 
without a god?
we say
stand up &
take back your
melting soil--
peel off your
thick fur-- learn
to feed off
faint sun & plastic--
adaptation of the 
fittest--
repent & evolution
will save you--
& the polar bear
shut their eyes &
next came the sun--
a kind of weeping
that quaked in the earth's
every fault line
& angry i said  
but i own blue recycling
bins--
i don't eat animals--
i'm here to save you--
take these 
god-words-- 
oh listen to me
listen to me--
& stepping back the
polar bear's body 
broke like a yellow
glow stick &
was pulled up
by marionette strings--
breathed cold
& frost-bitten &
the plain bloomed
with snow--
thick body & 
lush white the polar bear 
shook flurries
from fur--turned
to pace back over
her ridge &
i too pivoted to 
float back home--
wondering
how many more times 
those hymns will
work--
at the kitchen table
i tell myself
i will eat
only bottle
caps & of
course we
didn't pray hard
enough--
it's easier to
blame it on
the lungs &
the clamoring 
of my 
green glass 
soul--

i believe in snow men

& last night i
walked Spring home--
drunk & clumsy--
she laid across
two bus seats & slept
as street light after
street light 
blinked in the bus
window-- around
her grew tulips
& whistling daffodils--
lush green creeping
into the aisle--
i picked her
flowers & put them
in a vase
by her bed when
i tucked her in--
her humid apartment
on 5th street
reminded me of wanting
nothing more
than bare feet &
strawberries--
on the way home i pressed
my fingers 
to the cold bus window
& i felt the sky
yearn for snow--
for frost-licked
leg hair--
i dreamed of building
myself a snow man
like when my
brother & i 
would rush out
onto the concrete porch
& grab snow--
bare-handed--
checking if it was
good for packing--
melting through
our fingers-- crystal
fistfuls & there
the sapphires
were born-- slicing open
our soft
palms-- do you remember
bleeding water?
frost bite is
for non-believers--
i did't just dream 
of snow men-- i
said i believe
in snow men-- i believe
in the process
of rolling-- of
collecting
skin from 
your travels
& feeling yourself
grow thicker--
course & callous &
raw--
i believe in
building a spine--
one skin 
on top of
another-- it took
two people to hoist 
me as tall as i am 
& a needle
full of manhood 
to drop my voice
like a yo-yo-- 
oh snow men so men
where are you waiting
for me with
those red mittens
i lost in the snow
storm of 2009 
when there was nothing
but snow men pressing
down rooftops--
cupping palms
over porch lights--
filling our open
naive mouths with 
Styrofoam-- 
it takes so long
to melt
when the sun
is too shy to breathe--
do you know how
long i'll
take to decompose?
who wears those
red mittens &
is he a snowman--
lingering
behind the tight-skinned
night-- craving--
snow in her blood--
blizzards behind
her teeth--
i plead for
her to open-wide--
dentist--open--
she was scared
of coming on
so strong & there
on my concrete porch
i pressed me hand
to her forehead
& told her
that she was burning
up-- 
oh sick winter--
our snow men are
tired & so so thin--
i want to help
assemble-- bare-handed 
& shivering--
oh snow men i
covet your bodies--
your unwavering gender--
how you can melt 
a thousand times
& the little girls
still know 
you wear top hats--
oh there are no
snow women--
you rely on the kindness
of other cold queers
like me to
walk out &
test the snow--
you are born again
in me-- in my
night time 
desires for a body
so decidedly
sturdy & course
& man--
when the first snow
comes i promise
i'll be there--
ankle-deep in the 
front lawn-- 
making a snow ball
& bending down
to roll the first
sphere of a body--
tomorrow
let's be snow men--
weigh heavy 
on the roof
& cup the stop lights
in our hands--

a darkroom parable 
for prometheus  

worship begins with
a shut door
red air & a promise
to dip each other
in developer-- 
to be careful &
move slowly--
bring these ghosts
into being--
mother/father 
of brightness--
pulling bulbs from
the walls-- gifts
from god -- oh how
we are tempted
by light switches--
promise not to 
be naive like 
prometheus & to
pursue that which 
was never meant to
be ours-- 
oh what kind of boy
are you without
a ceiling over
your face?
this water was 
thick with body--
elusive camera memory--
i forget what
our pictures will
be of--
& there you were
as i developed you
& in the dark 
we exchanged names
& you pleaded with
me to stop--
to tear
windows
in the blank walls
to stop now
while fire
was still something
we could steal--
i wade into
the tray-- chemicals
up to my shins--
one step foward
into frame--
there me & you--
two strangers
on film-- the 
trees being born
for the first time
around us--
i ask you 
what they call 
you & you say that
you haven't got
there yet &
i say me either--
oh wait for the
world to become with 
me-- become 
stone benches & 
brick pathways & 
don't ask me for
windows-- we are patient
humans-- ones without
such marble fathers--
we bring each other
into being 
here in the darkroom--
your body a statue haze--
clay scooped from
the creek where we stumbled
barefoot as children--
got fish hooks in
our heels--
do you remember me now?
do you remember
the boy who had to
go home at sunset?
the silver lock
on his bed room door
& his scaly shingled room
we all wanted to jump from--
that's where they'll tie
me up-- call 
the eagle to swallow
my liver once 
we finally come into
focus-- isn't
that how it always ends?
tied to one's own
roof-- watching the 
vultures merry-go-round
high above &
someone will say something
about how they must have
found something
dead-- dead dead darkroom
lover let's not
leave-- begin
the pilgrimage home
to the negatives where
we can be small &
unknown &  wait
for a more eager
god-- i was
not ready for this--
i was not ready to stand
next to you 
in your jeans & 
wrinkled grin-- whose
brother will we be?
should he have stolen
us fire?
he-- yes i'm talking
about prometheus again--
i want to know 
if it was right
be for me to steal
you like this from 
darkness-- 
will you steal 
me if i steal you?
hold me up & believe
me black &  white 
& grey scale--
hide me from 
the eagles-- 
no we cannot have windows
not yet 
not yet
we must be silent--
let the darkroom
creep its hands over
our mouths--
don't scream-- this
is what it's like
to come into focus--
worship begins
with the sacrifice of
windows--
oh prometheus--
prometheus--
we scream--
stir in these
almost bodies--
there will always
be that impulse
to turn
yourself over
to the sun--
it matter only
who you become--
a girl-- ankle
deep in chemicals--
waiting for
dusk 

this is not a drill

this is not a drill
this is me pulling
my own body's fire alarm--
skin wailing
red-- the bells
burst out of
my jaws-- there
are sirens within us
that cannot be held
by the softness of
skin-- the scream
of bone marrow
& flash of light
protruding
from my mouth 
this 
is rushing out
on the front lawn--
sitting in
the dew-slick grass--
blue boxer shorts
wet feet--
i turn to look
at the body i run
away from & there
she is-- 
hands folded over
her chest-- 
asleep--
a pharaoh-- anubis
looming in a 
gray static cloud
waiting to 
begin by removing 
the heart-- 
you tell me
that you left your
laptop on the
night stand
& you want
to go back inside &
i tell you that
the fire alarm
is still laughing
& it's best to
let the joke play out--
smoke from my nostrils--
how can you stand
at a distance
& watch a body beg
for your return?
she opens windows
unlocks the cellar door
but out here i don't 
have to feel
the throbbing
of my own anxious
heart-- there 
is no fire-- no
oily mirror skin--
no bite marks from
match sticks--
no top drawers
of desks-- 
i'll stay out here &
the moon will wash me
in cool white water
& i will test
how far away i can
walk before
i start to feel
faint-- all
the way up east nineth
avenue to the little
park with a pavillion
& the purple
jungle gym
that i'm too big for--
i will still hear
the sirens from there
& know that there
is only so far you
can walk away 
from your veins
before
they take you back--
wool & course--
knitting you home--
has someone come
to put out the fire?
there's a child in
the second floor
bed room & she 
is not done believing
in the loch ness monster--
go get her first
stand back while 
the fire men climb
you arms-- hook
ladders to your ears--
your mouth--
break down the 
doorway of your eyelids
& they see no fire
& they are dissapointed
because they were hoping
to see a fire
as everyone is hoping to
see some sort of fire 
when the arrive to
the scene of a 
screaming body-- soul
detached & drinking
moon water in waiting--
the fire men give up 
& go home-- angered
by the absence of
flame-- little
girl from the second
floor bed room
slung over one
of their
shoulder-- they 
set her in the grass &
take turns wondering
what has made her lips
to blue  & her skin
so waxy--
when they leave
i walk up to her--
run my fingers through
her knotted damp hair
& tell her that 
i'm going back-- that
i promise i'll go back--
grab my arm-hair
to hoist myself up--
i'm taking us
home-- smoke alarms
& all--
in through my mouth--
we walk across my
tongue & i taste
the fear & melancholy 
of the thin
soles of my feet--
let's be swallowed
together
in flashing red &
imaginary ignition--
the process of
breathing smoke 
begins with accepting
the grey air
& then becomes
a game of how
desperately 
you want to inhale--
you're letting
out the red-scream
you're releasing
the earthquakes 
from your lips--
she's asleep now
again
in the second floor
bedroom--
what good are the fire
fighters when
don't believe
your smoke?
as always this was
between us