We practically gathered enough sense
To mark the drizzle between us;
We met half-faced sometimes half-human.
The sweet echo of return,
And to the same spot again
Noting the sour gong of bronze
Of nights – the psychotic clack clack
Of a stick against concrete pavement,
Our upheaval sings itself awake
Between bus stops the ink blots through clouds,
Grey/green, slit-winded the sand weathers me down;
And cheek-to-cheek not dissimilar to the iron face,
A surface cast like rusted bronze, as hard as a peach stone.
We bolt for the door the rain begs for touch,
We hear noises in a twilight Mexican standoff
Makes me love desertion – let me burst!
You carry your eyesight wherever you go,
Giving til now to carry God on your back.
Your shoulders perch and ache arching forward
You use the bathroom to escape the desert,
Such moments you hold in your shoes.
Such Kodak moments never hide the moments
I awake at 5 am, under sick-pale sky
Weaving through the birds, the sparrow at its prime,
Each scattered pubescent landscape at their own
Herbal scream; the petal echoes