IN GROUND WE TRUST
I could be someone who splits her time.
Gospel of Low-grade Fever. Gospel of You Haven’t Touched
Your Drink. I will lie down with you but we won’t get up
Together. When the storms get too large, we give them
A name, but not the tornadoes. When the love gets too
Loud, we swear by it. In four years’ time,
These will be the small stories we will tell each
Other, our exculpatory grace, all told. Gospel of So
You Say. My father used to call me a real pistol.
I say: It’s not the bullet that kills you, it’s the hole.
When I said come here, I meant come home.
But there’s no house for us to keep, no threshold
We will cross or meet that isn’t just the dirt
There is between us, the dust that kicks up, the gusts
That knock us asunder. These will be the small storms
We will wait out for each other, love. Come here.
Press both your palms down on my hips, like plunging
Your hands into a full bin of flour. Gospel of The Dust
That Kicks Up. What I mean is: who doesn’t want to
Wake up in a different city, just to be able to long
For home, for the way things taste before
They taste like what they’re meant to, batter
Licked from a whisk, fingered from the lip
Of the bowl. Stolen.
Minneapolis, Huffing amylnitrate at an 8o’s disco, alone, 2am, an old man needed a jacket, / thankful, 3am, the bridges, Starbucks, trash, chicken…