(no subject)
Then, okay. Forty or so hours together. There are some eyes to keep, wilted cotton colors I want to trace my finger around. Kind, checkered hearts beating beneath thin, lambing breastbones. There is a breathing, steady bleating. Streamers tied from handlebars. There are things I want to keep. Show and tell, and me do, me do.
Things I will keep, and you might smile. I've stored them up and I see him squalling around the corner then pull up short to laugh. We are eye to eye, tips of our noses touching, and I think that if I were a boy, I would move just like he does. And if I wanted a boy, he is the only kind I want.
In the flickering light of the bathroom, she is telling me how her son was born to her twelve years ago, and she nods at me to build some bridge between artificial insemination and adoption, and it takes me a while to realize that the bridge is made from twisted sheets and warm retreats, but alright then, I will walk across. As with structure, it is good for waking.
That is something I want to keep, and also the one from Alabama and the one from Boston and the one that walks on her hands in my dreams. Soft wilted corners of their faces now, where they were hard. And even those first boys, with their white, historical spines, they are saying, when can we come and talk about light and space and time and I'm saying, next week is good, even though it's not because their faces are soft like old sheets you want to pull around you.
Is it effect, or not? I know that I am my own best fooling thing, but this is where I walk. I wouldn't change for bridges made from steel, but for the kinds of things you walk on that are made from twisted words that kept twisting and twisting until they came round again to something safe and good for walking on.
roseiloveyou
and
yourendless
tithes
iloveyour
handsprings
and your
pinkreprise
iloveyour
hardspeaking
knuckle stones
iloveyour
heatseeking
slide trombones
Things I will keep, and you might smile. I've stored them up and I see him squalling around the corner then pull up short to laugh. We are eye to eye, tips of our noses touching, and I think that if I were a boy, I would move just like he does. And if I wanted a boy, he is the only kind I want.
In the flickering light of the bathroom, she is telling me how her son was born to her twelve years ago, and she nods at me to build some bridge between artificial insemination and adoption, and it takes me a while to realize that the bridge is made from twisted sheets and warm retreats, but alright then, I will walk across. As with structure, it is good for waking.
That is something I want to keep, and also the one from Alabama and the one from Boston and the one that walks on her hands in my dreams. Soft wilted corners of their faces now, where they were hard. And even those first boys, with their white, historical spines, they are saying, when can we come and talk about light and space and time and I'm saying, next week is good, even though it's not because their faces are soft like old sheets you want to pull around you.
Is it effect, or not? I know that I am my own best fooling thing, but this is where I walk. I wouldn't change for bridges made from steel, but for the kinds of things you walk on that are made from twisted words that kept twisting and twisting until they came round again to something safe and good for walking on.
roseiloveyou
and
yourendless
tithes
iloveyour
handsprings
and your
pinkreprise
iloveyour
hardspeaking
knuckle stones
iloveyour
heatseeking
slide trombones