walk your blue stairs palm your yellow wall ring
the broken doorbell crystalline bell pushed over
and over and over again in silence the knob twists
(the light’s on)
my snow-bottomed shoes your black rug
you writhe in the melt that slow slog the kit in the living room
I bang bang bang toms by the drapes ring shake the cymbals
each step a sock on hardwood the couch
rest my head the ceiling fan spins and spins
the whir of your breath encircles
undress slowly the winding staircase stop
just short of the top
MY FIRST CONVERSATION WITH ANNA
was on a stump under a wooden bridge
that led nowhere. You said I am a fence
wanting pink clouds. We walked the tumorous hill.
You popped a Prozac. The green
was infinite and quiet and a silence of oaks.
It was cold and snowing when I was naked
in the dirt digging with my hands with the other naked people.
We did not know what we were looking for. It was the first day
of winter and our legs burned from the chill. I said,
tell me everything you’ve ever known to be true.
You said nothing. But I make videos and we can record
our legs for twenty minutes– just the motion is enough
to nourish us. Hairy legs, hairless legs, left leg, right leg
walking upward to the nearest star– we carved a path
but it was our galaxy led us believe we could wind
and weave through sporadic trees called parks / art
exhibitions and we have these trees
on leashes trying to be trees
and if only we could look at them
and notice our leaves the same
we are so ill with them so malignant
and stuck and if we layer with them
into them if we could grow with them
we would bloom forever in ourselves
and then what would we have to talk about?