There are no oceans on the moon—
that’s why I want to swim in them.
Listening to a dead man’s voice,
willing to believe his lies.
We are never where we think we are.
I am eight years old…
sand in my teeth…
I hear laughing.
He is in love with someone’s eye.
She is in love with a prosthetic history .
He is in love with places he hasn’t visited.
She is love with feelings she hasn’t experienced.
They are in love with someone else’s loves.
I am in love with your sensibilities.
You are in love with a curator.
We are in love with something to be deleted.
I might go blind
if I look at you too long.
It’s like I’m holding audience
with the most holy thing
my godless brain can invent:
you emit this religious kind of light
that touches me in the same way
the sun touches plants.
If Jesus himself busted in on this poem,
in an explosion of sunbeams,
rainbows, and neon angels,
I’d probably just glance over
at that whole dull scene,
put on some dark sunglasses,
apply some SPF 50,
and then turn straight back to you.
The light abandons us
to another night.
Tree tips become membranes:
Sky and Earth share skin.
Ink mists gather:
blue blood bleeding
into black horizons.
We fold senseless
into it all:
a boundless origami
of forest and river,
their creatures and their filth.
Hills and mountains rise:
from lava oceans beneath.
Up turns down,
and inside, out.
the void reclaims us.
Do what you can now:
The light will not return.
His heart beat tears, and not blood;
a lifetime of feelings swelling veins,
suffocating his body.
He dreamt of cutting it out,
and sealing it away
somewhere safe to dry.
But was afraid he’d flood the world;
that cascades of salt-sweet memories
would drown us all.
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