art blog

I can’t love them if their hands aren’t all tore up

From something, guitar strings, kitchen knives & grease

Burns, heaving the window ACs onto their crooked old

Sills come June. Fighting back. That porchlight’s browned

Inside with moth husks again & I can’t climb a ladder

To save my life, i.e., the world spins. Even when it’s lit,

It’s half ash. Full-drunk under a half-moon & I’m dazed

We’re all still here. Most of us, least. For the one & every

Girl gone, I sticker gold stars behind my front teeth so

I can taste just how good we were. I swear I can’t

Love them if they can’t fathom why an unlit ambulance

On a late highway means good luck. I hold my cigarette-

Smoking arm upright like I’m trying to keep blood

From rushing to a cut. What’s true is my shift’s over &

I’m here with you now & I’m wrapped up tight

On the steps like a top sheet like the morning paper

Before it’s morning. Look up & smile. What does it matter

That the stars we see are already dead. If that’s the case well

Then the people are too. Alive is a little present I

Give myself once a day. Baby, don’t think I won’t doll

Up & look myself fresh in the eyes, in the vermilion