To can't do. To overly over-you,
to te amo [wrong name], to songs of wronged
I think we & planting boxwood & snowdrop
for not our winter
children, nor sweet box
To facetiming winter silence
for hours. To no camellias & christmas rose touching through a screen
& still not sorry
in iceland for less than a week
& some other life lurking
on black sand shores.
To my life, to yours,
under half-sunken moons & oh the places we won't go,
to not airbnbing
haciendas of airy
rooms & canopy beds
engraved with lions
To drug restaurants
that serve only cobra lilies
with a side of blackbirds
who wield spiked hammers—
a kind of punishment
for that ]]horse[[ I still long for.
To splinters & spitting
the names I'll never
in kitchen inferno [when burning certain animals]
without remorse. To your most exquisite
stews & fermented
I won't break
to catch a broken down train.
To that first trail we missed.
To falling off & eroded hoofprint.
To the city you saved
by sticking a scorched trainer
in sliding door &
what's so wrong
with hell anyway. To
as a betrayal of what is happening
to people we love
& to people not just waiting around to die.
To love as resistance but not always
the way back. To I can't can't I. To you
crashing into the bathroom
& fishing me out of the sink
& carrying me in your arms
like that scene in the bodyguard
only the song I sing has no queen,
has no eyes
or dreams, there is only
dim & dog-eared
kaddish. To forgiving me
for all the plums I'd most certainly devour.
To the platypus & fisher king, to breaking
in case of emergency.
To reading adonis
in a crowded bar while televisions
signal flare amid a canopy
To having hope
in our pop-up whit of the world,
its edges sour & peeling.
To never having really left jerusalem
which is why I'm still busted stars
& throwing elbows.
To the hours we made horses between nightfall
& war. To should go home. To leaving it
the longest way
of derailed horsecry
& amaranthine bones.