I will say anything.
Say anything, and keel over from a tongue
too heavy to taste the fabric shafts of words.
Preferably anonymous to the receiver,
a barista who will never see me again and wonder why
those words suffered to be held in a chest so long.
Rubbing my hands together, the dead skin like
kneaded sand, and I leave it.
The world a knotted sphere to sew my debris.
I can bend freely with the earth
and its blanketed creases, enfolding,
then smooth, as we as children curl,
hide in it tufts.
Every morning my eyes out the window to the west,
yet any cardinal direction woukd led me to you.
My eyes in orbit around the room.
I have to rub my eyes like a child to stay awake.
My elbows tilted, sleeves up past the joints,
proving to myself the earth entrenched beneath
the Saran-wrapped skin.
We end up in love with the hate that binds us,
the mutual sludge to keep our bones in their molds.
If I were a pilot, would I be able to smell
the chloroform of Heaven wafting down?
But I am grounded, desiring, or my blood straying
from its conditional flow, oblivious.
Wanting then, my hand to be knit out of yours,
like the clasped palms of maple leaves
on Front Street, together budding, falling,
deteriorating.