the secret of fire

they have taken
your eyes

and sprinkled
behind
bits of
sea glass
of such
green
that
I sooner
feel them
kiss
through
my flesh
than
look at them.

I am
a sky-wrapped
explosion
holding
the shrapnel
in–
turning myself
inside out
to
protect
you;

(what is
a
tree?)

I am
a sky-wrapped
implosion

and

soon

the moon
will crack
my rib bones
outward
and the stars
will
illuminate
all of my
breaths
which you have
stolen.

If
your hair
were
fishing line
then
men
would happily
starve.

The secret
of
fire
is that
it
gives warmth
to those
around it
even as
it
consumes
and
destroys
itself.

I will
never
be more than
any
flower
that
grew.

I
miss
you.

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an disjointed love poem

don’t
put bricks
in a wooden
fence;

some stories
begin
in the
middle
like this
I

(white sand,
you are white
sand);

can’t say
why;

am not
opposed
to
knees to
chest
prayers

on a perpetual
ly
sliding
dream
r
_u
__n
_n
i
_n
__g
across the
earth
you

are like
a plant
whose invisible
indivisible
(mercifully)
sometimes
miserable
roots
tangle
with the
air;

will be
like
salt sea

the
breeze
in my
mouth
I

like
to be there
at night
when your
fingers
pull down
the lightswitch
for the
last
time;

remember:

your hair
was thicker
than I’d
imagined
I

was scared
to show you
too much
or
too little
with
my eyes
my lips
my breath;

love you.

some words bloom

Some words
fall asleep
dustily
on a shelf,

while others
dry out
in
emotion-slathered
letters
on parchment.

Some words
get buried
deeply
beneath
the weight of
day-to-day
noises,

and some words
get
left behind
on a nightstand
or
between memory
and
memorable.

Some words
lose
their melody
while others
never had one

(just as
we know,
my love,
that
some melodies
have
lost
their words
before
they
quite
had them),

and some words
never
discover
the
vertical harmonies
of
other words.

Still,
I keep
writing words
to
you
in hopes that
some of them
might
bloom
in you
until you
return
to me.

without you

I know that you
read
these poems

and

I know that you
search
for how you
fit in
to
each
one.

A secret
(unmentionable)
part of you

craves
to know

if
I
am miserable
without you

(for which
I
forgive you),

and

likewise
wonders

if
my only happiness
breathes
in tarnished reflections
of our
dusty
memories;

a not-so-secret
part of me
gives
those
to you.

The insurmountable truth
is that,
without you,
there would be
no
poetry,

and

that

is both

a beautiful

and

a terrible

thing.

I know that you are not there

I know that
you are not
there

but

I still like to
imagine
that the silently stalking
car
outside my
window
chasing
the shadow
across my wall
is you
in the corner of
my eye,
prying yourself
away
from me
to wash your face
with a groan;

I know that
you are not
there

but

I like to believe
that you are just
constructing
your intricate
salad
and will soon
slide down
next to me
with a
slanted
smile
as I sit here
eating
alone;

I know that
you are not
there

but

I still see
your blooming
eyes
in every
leaf
that I have
ever
known;

I know that
you are not
there

but

I have learned
to know you
in the places
that you are
even when
you
are
not–
as one might see
a bird
as it has
flown
by night:
not by its
presence,
but by tracking
the space
where the stars
had not
shone.

Étude on Loneliness (in e minor)

people only like poems
that make them feel
like
a hero.

for instance

tonight
it got so bad
that I checked the mail
at
4am:

just a sale ad–

which I
nevertheless
flipped through
until
a perfume advertisement
fell out

and

I tore open
the cardboard flap

closed my (ey)(es)

and ran it
across
my stubbled cheek
and chin
and then up
past
my nose
again

inhaling

as I imagined that

someone

(anyone)

was here
with me
tonight.

Some
hero.