Hiding out under the bleachers 

with a chest as empty 

as the bed I can’t sleep in anymore. 

​

They're still in love with America. 

​

I pass out, kissing my friend’s floor. 

On the hardwood. 

​

Cocoon myself in an overture of dark— 

slip back— 

 

Into that nether-place. Under the table.

Let no one see— 

​

The camera 

(which is really an unfortunate creature)

Chiaroscuro: “light-dark” 

How to keep it “lowkey” 

We can hang, but— 

​

Let’s skip past the bad part. 

The blur, white-surf of no sound— 

​

Come back to October. 

Red and gone, like ghosts from every tree. 

​

Did you know I still live there? In the trunk

of his car— cypress drenched 

in the drizzle of 

What if nothing really happened? 

A fake season: 

​

The flora in a mad, wrong bloom against death.

Clear eyes. Full hearts. Can’t lose.

 

And the lights blare out 

one-by-one, in a starless ripple— 

​

Until nothing else can go wrong. 

Until we’re alone again. Counting dark. 

​

I used to think there were fairies in the streetlamps. Now I’m scared of God in everything— 

And the gun. 

Forgot where we hid it— 

​

Carjack the ribcage. Lock the door. 

Can you speak my secret name? 

Can you fix me? 

​

Haven’t asked for a savior in a long, long           time.

But I’ll talk to you, 

if you’ll talk to me. 

​

I’ll white-walk 

to the nearest crossroads. Leave the antlers 

as an offering. As photographic evidence 

to the forest-gore of our surviving. 

​

I will bury this life. 

I will not have another.