once a year, in the dark of the year we wash the whole world in a day—for one day, we cry
In truth, nobody wants water this thin. One swallow, and we’re off to dig for more within a hollow womb. This morning we sip water, discussing the trauma in our blood: saltwater — there it rests, in droplets, on my breast skin, “Oh,” I say. “My tears,” rubbing them deep within.
further away from us. When she calls, the tiger has parked the yellow-striped taxi on the highway’s rough shoulder. It’s time,
To orient in the finest sense of cackles, mute chrysanthemums, funneling inordinate nakedness, absorbed, absorbed, immediately absorbed.
for walking. Likely I became then a member of heaven, put up, the years come and reaching
when I think of that one note that breaks what’s left of what’s human in me, man,
I remember that first time: the empty auditorium, her voice, the dark all around us, her mouth reaching into mine. She was Freddy’s foxy older sister, and I didn’t know why she wanted to kiss me. She had already finished high school and probably shouldn’t have been walking the halls, but she always called me her friend. So one Monday after gym,