i never kept what wasn’t given to me, never felt anything but a need to be absolved
of sins i would yet commit because the DSM said it would be so. in the living room
we made a map of our future with perforated dreams and an inkwell of our sweat–
that winter was over by the time the cigarette smell finally faded from the porch
and you left me for limbs that looked like mine but weren’t, almond-eyed lampshades
that flickered on and off while i sat tonguing the electrical outlet, thinking about
how i don’t know love only obsession, how your hip bones were two poles i sailed
between with my teeth, how you may go around the world–but remember it’s just a circle.



pirouette on a brain cell
my love for you is an electrical impulse by synapse
to a map of words burned through paper with chemical
intention, something heavier than a lead pipe
that smashes my head into a flutter of boids
pixilated flocks of smattered fragments
that eclipse the image of you in my retina.
and everything is so tenuous,
relationships a matter of optics,
if your cheekbones look better
from the left or the right
beneath the streaming desk light
where you have laid your head down
to draft a dream
that falls apart upon first light,
where i kissed you and where
you wake with a bruise on your face
and a fistful of tiny white paper squares
that turn and dart to the left,
now to the right.