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three possible endings

go like green
then return like conspiracy

this moment rests along her hands
around this tablecloth

how her voice tends to be like
his voice
gathered in shirt collars
and helpless stars



plenty of me is torn
at these sleeves

you should translate
my translation

a tree like that
is empty of figs

empty of branches
on the edge of that lake

stare across
and he remembers

the shape of falling
into water



blessed and
holy
and evil and
violent



you can tell how a fish feels when it can’t remember you
then it does
then
it forgets    then you
leave and never

come back
thoroughly tall
move still photographic
black and
white razor sharp

childish
relatable apples and oranges
forgettable torrents



she sleeps on the beach
how pink are her toes
when this sun falls
into their favorite shapes












egg sandwiches ready    she said    and she hates egg sandwiches    she hates eggs    she doesn’t
want to know about the egg
just the bread
just the soy bacon
not the egg    not the possibility of life    not this almost
I’m alive then breakfast
not these bodies almost    bodies in the water
bodies and olive oil and wheat germs and basil…


a house and a table
a glass of something cold
and red or white

the fireworks looked like her
hands when they were asleep
on his face

and his eyes peaked
through those spaces
between her fingers



a moment
a taste on her mouth
touch some grass
then her leg
then the way she moves across
his arms in stillness
so swiftly

a tornado
and you heard me
a hurricane
and I’m gone



a sandwich
and we’re home together
thinking about
what to do
with this left over kale
and garlic
and rice

should we leave
never come back
and reattach these colors dropping around
our ankles



snap a tree branch
a raindrop
and there’s the skin of an apple
waiting
like this
in my mouth

snap the skin of a mango
and it’s still
bitter

the flesh of these lemons and limes
and sliced ginger
on the cutting board
waiting next to some cilantro
and red onion














and then just
them

like nothing poured
into wax



their memories are sculptures which rush
all day and night and wish about swimming
across this ocean
to those beaches
covered with seagull feathers
Posted 01/10/13
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