a hollow hurt

did she hear a choir just after she leapt?

a hymn, a pretty progression

was she able to hear it over the air she

shot through?

what song, what sound brought her

to the bottom?

i wonder if she held her breath or

shut her eyes.

did she wish she were winged?

what wish, what woe bought her

to the bottom?

did she laugh or cry or try to whistle?

a hollow hurt after she plunged for

a lifetime.

did she cover her face before she stopped?

pulp of noon

i hear a

choir 

as more of your

body

unfolds.

my limbs dream

and lift

and stretch,

strung and hang

how easily you

breathe,

nude in the pulp of

noon.

how cruel i am,

hovering in a

hushed hallelujah.

neon warble

wanted to

warm your bones

the way you

cooked mine with your

neon warble

you are the

constant climber, the

long down yodel.

the notes as stems,

sip the self-conscious

sweetness poured slow

quiet now, a

chirp: the softest

coo, the amber

hush of evening rests

in a burgundy meniscus

sunken swollen

still and smoked, some

wrinkled ignorance

rippled round my

eyes

a sour stink keeps

you

afloat and shrinks

my tired bones:
you're winning.

i am tight beneath this

budding need to

breathe, hammered

home: your

hatred.

once upon a while, the

West was kind.

bye.

all i got is what
isn't good

to the artist with the
bad breath and the
painted mouth,
to her shall i
pay my thanks.

my life is
brain matter
spatter'd wrong
along
the wall

tight hands, dents in
dead palms

i don't mind dreaming now.