there's butchers blood on my shoes and I can't keep my palms clean.
it's nearly time for my conscience to come calling from tulsa.
later, the sky is gold and blue and pink, and I'm in the back seat
following a smudge of black birds with my eyes
then our station wagon intersects underneath.
later, the bike ride from your apartment tasted like snow
and I was hyper-aware of my hands on the grip
and I thought of all my molecules separately when I was home.
it was cold as sin and I was hungry as sin and the low
warm fog gave me energy for an hour. the sunlight that eased
inside all afternoon escaped orange through the blinds.
good friends, I have a dream of wholeness:
for this year, I'm a mass of tissue stronger than a paper trail,
brighter than projection, and as warm as blood
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