bittersweet daydream

upstairs the little white ivory keys
in the dust of shattered crystal, they
call “please, please” and dust falls
from everything we erased

and the color in the center of a
waterfall, it grows on you, you
exhale no smoke, your heart
could heat the school

the finger on the clock
lifts to play rows of notes, and
tritones in jade, pages of murder
in the halls of the heart and
angelina jolie’s lips, dresses
made of sunny water on
the curve of her hips

and sliding down soft heather hills
to the trees, a faint
surprise, bloody knees—felt in
felt-tip pen, but we
will never be here again

Laura va être Eve…le coeur va être à la main…if never again…?

a message to my bones

when i was younger you terrified me
and i still try not to think about it
but maybe there’s a face in you
to keep all the little parts together

i sometimes fear my spine will not survive
all the pressure of the eighth letter
on the ninth vertebra, but i fear more
the anonymity of being without you

i’d never love you less
if someone spent all night gluing you
back into me
just to get things back to the way they were

more hero dreams

in the hold
shattered things sparkle
the font leans bold if glass
blown over cellulose
sends the trail south and i’m looking
up the proper dose

north by northwest
we go, bitter not doubles
egos conjoined and begging to die first
watching for angels in dress shops
to ring a bell

inclination indicates
we should both survive and
only the door
disagrees, the taste of iron
lingers and i’m looking

the softness in your heart

my preoccupation is not
for the french
i have no dependence
on a constellation
no lake, no sweater, no courage, just
tiny shooting pains of terror, stars
shooting up, as if

of a different time, a
gray time, and dreams
dreams of kitchen knives
raised in heroism, shots fired
in self-defense, or the defense of you
and ditches not driven into
filled up with snow not melted, strikes
not broken, mugs identical
and things i would stab to save
and thunder-and-lightning worries
about that softness in your heart
and the beating of rain and
growing pains
and pendulums that strike
and the clever hero: me, and us
at least a little bit alike