It’s time to admit my signs—the opalescent
rise followed by the shattered, jagged crash:
sugar glass (sweetened grief)
colored blue and white, a little burnt odor
like cricket legs crackling within
the one-eyed stare of a match. The
photos orbiting weather changes—weaker
now that there are ghosts in them.
I have the breath of a warrior:
meaty and salty and used to decay.
There are necessary routines, common
stops as if on a chessboard with
the blurred past revealing no patterns
whatsoever. Blood runs two directions.
You are careful, unwrapping gum like a present:
Peppermint blooms in the air, but the chew is pale
even as it receives your crimson mouth
and plays your tongue like a harp.
