There’s
a
ringing
in these old ears,
a ringing in these old ears
for you.
A scratching buzzing fuzz that sticks
and bleeds
humming,
dripping,
on birds wings
dust,
and gravel.
a moss that grows warm
syrup in my throat
an angry love that
floats upward,
washing boats,
to the backs of my teeth and
trees that blink and falter against your light.
I am
your splitting headache,
a heartache shape,
weaving lips over
words.
I am wound-light in desperate moons,
cut,
tendon-to-temple
spilled,
opened,
drained dry and
emptied.
I dream raw,
woozy
newborn wobble-legged
lemon-baked days that
stretch on taffy-strings
from my gaping chest
telephoned to
die
nestled
in your
breast.
This is a spell
a hex
I’m screaming echoes,
soundless incantations and,
ancient powers
into empty
unhearing
mirrors.
Calling out to you
beseeching your apparition
to turn around and
see me,
safe and sound.
Breaking the crystalline chrysalis above
your head and
holding you
searching,
dauntless,
to hear you
promise.
