PART I
bacon grease solidifies in your least used mug,
the compost doesn't leak on the way to the yard,
the sky peels the sun open in all directions
and you spend the day looking for time.
the bus roof weeps onto the pages of an overdue book,
yellow lines racing you to the end of the world. you try
to be one with your own words. today,
you just wonder where you went.
PART II
you cry in the theatre like someone's died.
the floor warps around the flood of feet on stairs,
but you will sit in hopes of an end credits, to see
how far this will stretch—over the balcony, the two inches
to the floor. over & over again, the lights dim.
the screen, a mirror. you post a picture of a soggy shirt
just to tell everyone it's yours.
PART III
you smell the bodies on the porch and the song
tells you it's bravery. maybe it isn't easy to see
your fingers when they're buried so deep. intimacy
lives in a hook and a line you'll remember so well, it might come true.
it's some late august, and the tree's branches are too high to touch.
the compost is staining the garage floor, and the dove
left its babies in the porchlight. the sun is eating the sky alive
and now you watch from the window.
