a picture of three young boys with milk mustaches

i google them, dont want to know more about them than i already do, just want to be sure they arent dead

now you have to imagine that theyre in california

once a milk boy, now: hunched over in a library

a flowered shirt, from a distance you cant get an impression of what hes like

fingers against mahogany

and my grandmothers dresser that started to melt just because it was by the window

so now it has to be covered with a sheet during the months when the sun is sharpest

once a milk boy, now: a cats paw against a bare thigh

and the cactus that grows faster after i put it on the windowsill

a window to rest his chin against, very cool

thank you from a former milk boy licking milk from the little hairs on his upper lip

now its almost silent in the public pool

no one in the fitness center

its the sound of operating rooms, a heightened objectivity

the few who were in the big pool stood like strange water fruits

thank you milk boy for making my life so quiet and pleasant yesterday

my breasts, i lay examining them for lumps

until i turned totally white from boredom and made popcorn and noodles

i stood looking at the water in the pot as if it were something serious

or as if all thats left of me is such a seriously distraught state

Nothing's in the nest. No needles. No newborn ravens.
Maybe something like night in the deep hollow,
an eggshell planet, cracked in the middle, an empty bowl of soup.
Nothing's in the nest. No thread. No webs of words.
Maybe something like my navel, the eclipse of a magnifying glass.
A slice, mute with regard to its empty depths.
In the nest, nothing. The web unwoven. Dismembered.
In the space, something, yes. A piece of cloth. Sounding like flags
taking wing, a worm in its beak and suddenly, eyes, my eyes
which, cutting across the empty air, direct themselves at something noiseless over there.

Even when I walk alone at night,
even when someone quietly follows me into the back alley,
I believe.

I believe flowers will bloom.
I believe the stink and the pollen will trigger my allergies.
I believe in white blossoms because they wither.
I believe the girl who reveals her white nape under the flowering tree 
will receive merciless love.

Drag out the furniture and memorabilia,
tear open the curtains
and look at my body.
It is steeped in sounds and colours that touch the heart.
My love, O love,
look at what it hides from you.

I believe.
I believe in today’s news.
I believe in the travelling theatre.
I believe that the music and the circus won’t ever return.

I believe no music or reading will interrupt me.
No demolition or bombing raids will ruin my dinner.
O love, you’ll buzz in and out like a fly.
You’ll go on like this for a little while, then stop.

The flowers bloom even when I barely water them.
Some flowers sprout even though the soil is parched.
Those kinds of flowers are terrifying.
I put on a mask and flee.

I believe
the thief who escaped from the dark alley
might have been my lover waiting for me.
I believe
the killing won’t end, the raping won’t end,
and more wars will flare up.
I believe 
we’ll divvy up our pointless flaws
and finally disappear without ever making things good.