Fourteen Two Thousand Seventeen

You whisper.

my heart turns acrobatic

you leave

light bulbs pulsing in your wake.

The bowling alley

can’t seem more chaotic than

the bed we so beastly unmade.

We made the boy and the girl

who we prep

for trajectory.

hell if know

the routes you go

with,

to me,

uncanny instinct

I trust like

I once did Santa.

(it was the drug, not me)

You can populate

a Dee-troit city directory

with what i can’t explain.

i do

know

though

why

my head explodes:

you want me?

my

high crass woman.

Together as we lead them to nest’s edge

the world will open up with arms outstretched.

my dearest partner of greatness,*

your love is
tulips in the tiptoes of

me and Harry Dean.

*Macbeth, 1.5