be the hater I mentioned, midnight
kisses rolling around on a tiny bed?
A hater on a bed of lies? If so, I’m
spoken for, so do me no more than you
intend to punch. Talk about anything but
triumph and the ribald stroke of pessimism
that causes a hummingbird’s callow
heart to skip a beat. This alerts the
face of time, which shatters when
its best friend, the other humming-
bird, reverses course a fraction
faster than is humming-feasible.
A mouth full of dust just ate the
living room floor, snapping each
breath with a combustible camera.
Each page is welted in the middle (from
the ribbon’s bind) until I’m too chapped to
gag. I understand each is loaded with GPS
and always able to find me. So I’m right here,
hater. It’s pretty clear that you have it good.
But we are never fit for it. We are not a
pert bird’s lax heart. We are merely
the lax heart; the triumph of a
tiny bed that shatters a
mouth full of dust.
Think you can
find me now?
