she promises / chugging jars of nighttime under / a plugged nose, collapsing on herself / laughing at joke that only exists / in the future while someone accuses / another of stealing – wasnt her, never / her – she isnt that kind of bad, / always one more, just one / more, just

the Fall would not have been so bad; / we could have carried on. / Our tears would not have dripped in vain, / if we could still be one

cradle the violin’s neck, / body the death mahogany / takes, an anticipation / of the loss, a dark honey / running into always to tip / that sleeping tumble

the almond extract because it smells as acidic and sterile / as her breath. I don’t think I can go back to the third / grade in August when I understand bigger things now, / like the urge to squish a frog in the palm of your hand

Once these plants have died / the weeds will continue to thrive. / They are the best things that he / has ever grown in his small patch of land. / I know the weeds will grow taller and taller. / They grow like a gardener does to his flowers / with tender loving care

Let me calculate our radials / distance between / my shovel / your towel / waltz fingers through channers / leave me beautifully broken / taste of grit / and bone dust / praying on tongue