Still, on my thigh I feel his hands. I know they're just
breadcrumbs in a marble-spun urn, a mantelpiece patient not to tip onto
the torn carpet in front of a fireplace still coughing up fragments of a
love poem tossed into its unstable mouth, lisping each syllable on its
tongues' bright oblivion.
The obituary reads like an online dating profile long-abandoned, mildly
Sister Patterson fans her luminescent forehead with the folded 8x11
sheet of printing paper pictured-up black and white with a specters
Taken 1987--Greasy sitting
on a tree trunk in Garfield Park, waiting
for the Num. 2 bus
Beneath his square toes, a puddle of piss from the neighborhood drunk
that his Mama swore was golden
rain that came and stayed. Inside the liquids circle, you can make out
mocking the crease in Greasy's brow, fleeting vow of skin.
Smoke billows from the fireplace, an exhale in frozen air playing he
loves me he loves me not
with its own unending body. Transient, in the higher stretches of
sunlight, it knots
against the brick-framed pipe, unravels from its night-tint pulse. And
to love about those trees, still splitting their wood in the wind's
rotting vocabulary?--O knotted
buds stunned shut by a winter too long, it's cold in here, too.
Hiss open your blooming. Nothing
too good of a gown: a sheath of leaves, my arms' frameless
curtains, a tepid memory here then not.