the ending loom.

It's like going back to when we wore our mothers shoes, clanking around to hear the chimes of our souls take beat against the crystal ground. China sets bottled in boxes licked with tape, peeling to be more than just ourselves.

Without warning to lift up our cups hot water pours over itself, leaving clumpy wet sugar sprawled out against the grids of our maps. Suddenly, as if everything wasn't really anything, we're taken. The lust for wings is surrendered. Like shapes that are torn by the sharp side of the moon we realize that even we can't be more than just stars. And not even the type that are drooled over by astronomers. As numbered bodies we will give off sapless balm, raped, under the sunset of our age.

resonating like an uncivilized drum.

can't wake up from a silent curve
since your stubbornly hip coconut dream
waves lapped in hood style against backyard cement that you
drum, drip, drink
me and my open milk
lungs in the slang of your car
like all those slow smoke pulls
shelled with bloody lips and remember when you said
you'd rather cut your eyes open
than to never
kiss me again.