The scar on my forehead conjugates when
I speak of you and
semaphore’s a bird perched with
discernment when it visits.
Can you hand me a passing, breathing day in
a ship that’s uncut?
A wave’s key says so much.
In cadence of hopeless dreams
I type like a cat fishing foil mice,
I’m upright and silent, ready to pounce.
Then you appear with smiles, so charming,
leaving me bare in a restaurant holding an umbrella
that says “Look at the scars on my wrist,
they’re my mother.”
To the in and out,
thoughtlessness doesn’t please,
nor does it say;
“Let’s go eat and be merry.”
We locked our nest
to be we
without God,
nothing of thickness in
the world,
just us.
In the golden area
it’s quiet. The river rustles
speaking of you and
everything falls into blue petals.
