Because I can’t tell her eyes and galaxies apart
They gleam, and burst
Golden-speckled in the morning

Because I can’t tell her hair and the oceans apart
They wave, and swell
Pull me under their surface

Because I can’t tell her hands and the aspens apart
They spin, sentinels
Capture with their chilled veins

And because I can tell your form from hers.

You destroy, she preserves,

And your eyes were never as galaxy-ridden, your hair never as ocean-like, your hands never as
aspen-akin as hers, she reminds me of the soil that you overturned and the saw you used to hack.

And because of this,
I strive to slip the flowers under my skin

* * * 

[Painting Apocalypse]

When the grass was still green,
He told me he’d paint the moon
With his black and blue oils
No pastels in sight

When the sky erupted fireflies
He determined he’d paint it clear
With some layered cobalt
No crawlers on this canvas

When the frame was covered with ash
He promised he’d paint us together
With a photo he kept in his coat
No destruction in our picture

But when the world turned inside out
His paintings were left untouched
With frayed edges and dried pigments
No more morning, no night


* * * 

[Aura]

In the color gold I find myself stuck
Caught up in tresses and layers of spite.

Because in the color gold I can apparently slide—
through the windows and doors of Versailles

And in the color gold I confide
Secrets and half-subtle rendezvous

In the color gold I notice more
All the blemishes and covergirl spots

Because in the color gold it’s easier to hide
[from the pressure that’s building in your head]

And in the color gold I ask him
Why do you grind the flakes into your bones?

In the color gold I dip my hands slowly
Watch as they change their tune

From only, you’re just a girl
To all, you can conquer the world

This change is nothing but habit
Because gold is easily malleable

* * * 

[Latteville]

In the style of copy change after William Strafford

In hindsight, I do like coffee.
In a town a can’t remember.
In faceless tourists I like the ease of anonymity.
And in colors I prefer all glass.
Small waiter, a local trapped as I am,
Asks, “Where are you going?”
He knows I will not stay
Towns like these push out what they cannot hold

* * * 

[Nostalgia]

In response to the song Night Mime by Melanie Martinez...

Powdered faces blurred against streetlights
Reached the highest levels of midnight
You and all your night-mime ways

Sharpened phrases scraped upon layers
Swelled over the brim and tumbled
Past me and the aftermath again

Pin-pointed indents and ignored signatures
Flashed down fragile pews and nose bridges
Farther grows the reminiscence and nostalgia

No one asks for forgiveness from me
But leaves can’t fall from trees without wind
Your breath is the North and my eyes are the sail
Set me upon the ocean to dance