no. love, you are porcelain
fragments; pushpins spilt.

these things puncture underfoot. blue.
threads in softness; lines going
across me, you were so tender,
little sinking bites.

ceramic shards,
how my feet bloom
wet, along your mouth
red peonies and claret,
oxidized kisses on a pane.

i would scatter you:
silver tacks and iron pins;
how you dizzy on my splintered floors, how
fearfully sweet my heart races and aches
the way i pierce you into my flesh.

the waking epiphanies

Filaments, mouths,
their acrylic encasements
will flight through ambergreyed avenues.
They leave fires, blurred smoke carriages
scattering, sun-borne.

-
 
I know
that roofs are for jumping.

-

When I first fell in love, the sky pretended to be paintbrush rinse-water.
I became like fresh Chinese calligraphy on white printing paper, laying on the dank bottom of the sink,
the rush of warm faucet water washing over my skin surface, displacing and soaking into every part of me.


(That is a lie. Love has never been like that.)