the heat rises and sets
under the black elm silhouettes
it is you
and it is me
and we are painting ourselves
against the sky.
the days rain melts
itself from greed rooftops
and drips like the songs
of summer and ice.
night is only so dark with
writhing demons in its
cyclic rise and fall
when the stars are afraid to
open their eyes, to
look down at the sadness
the world has become;
it is not like infection as
the poems stutter against
sad and empty bones,
sad and empty homes,
the nests of mother robins
barren too early in
the warmth.
i promise you,
under the bowing bodies
of the elms,
in the way that i feel
small in your arms,
that i will be a perfect human.
you tell me with a
flutter of lips on my humid skin,
"there are too many ways
for a human to die."
