fluid

I wake up—
broad-shouldered and cynical
chiseled from stone with a butter knife and a bad eye
lanky and blocky and stiff
elbows sticking out at strange angles
arms dangling from a hunchback
I wake up sweltering
sunlight clawing open my blinds
and into my pores
stubble jutting out from under nowhere
overslept and invisible

I go to bed—
slender and solemn
seeping into sheets
flowing and molded into mismatched shapes
I round off the edges and turn inward
quantify my worth
count up my corners
a fire in my gut but I can’t breathe it out
so I hold my breath all night
just waiting

she

with a hot flash and a sharp inhale
she’s right here, right next to me
rotoscoped, mimicking my movements
oh, she can dance
spinning like sunflowers
though I don’t know the steps

pins and needles

these hills are star studded with wires
tangled and fraying and living on fire
from lugging lightning bolts for miles

lying here tangled in spread sheets
worn out and breathless in the summer heat
wrapped up in repetitive humidity

one day mountains will stand straight up
and throw off the pins and needles we stuck
we’ll build our new homes in their giant footsteps
and wade into water up to our necks

I’ll sing you a spiral when the trumpets play
when the moon hangs orange all day
and I strain to hear every word you say

when the fog comes through and it’s raining for days
you wear leaves like a jacket and you cover your face
I left the lights of the city for that old mountain haze

one day mountains will grey and fade
and shed the sun-soaked beds we made
we’ll trace the ridges of their silhouette
and sketch the shape of the day they left

I don’t know when the weather turns
when you wake up in fits and starts
or walk out in a flash of sparks
I don’t when I’ll see you again

one day mountains will come crashing down
with a shattering rain, on this plastic town
when we find our words waterlogged and broken
we’ll find new bodies to walk around in

scrapbooks, sinkholes

it’s warm all year
perpendicular, living on
store-bought time and
drinking last year’s wine

impose straight lines
and drive all night
roundabout
the way back home

apartments all look the same
drywall, plastic
I terraformed new roads
sick to my stomach on
speakerphone