For instance, what do I name the flower
of your stigmata?
The dare of cigarette against skin
is what I know of you,
that you would burn yourself
to measure the amperage of soul.
I forgot to ask if you’ve ever felt
a clock slip its arm
up your back, a ventriloquist of circles.
I smile like I know what that means.
That’s what I love about poetry.
Sorry.
That’s what poetry loves about us.
That we’ll be stupid
in its presence, will tumble
into our thoughts before they exist,
beautiful is a sound that means
premonition.
What I learned: that your lips
sometimes move
before you speak, as if wind
hides inside them.
That trespassing tastes better
with Indian food.
That next time,
we should follow the train tracks
to the vanishing point,
that’s where God is.
I forgot to ask you everything.
Is why I send you my ears, my mouth.
music
