i want to hear the seven colors of your voice
to share with you the burning umber of cookies
and lemon tang of sunburnt mornings
i want to know every mountain on your skin
to purge with rivers of unaccounted time
the odor of shaved graphite and trails of ink
i want to seek out all your groans and utterances i once sloughed
to clasp them to my breast as a mother clasps a hideous babe
before she sees its face:
i want to push the rock across the wasteland
as a celebration of the fools we are when we are together
but we are apart. and now i’m wallowing in mounds of monstrous shit—of snorts
and tissues and viruses and tylenol and dirty clothes and mantles of dust
shading my eyes in a separate sleet, as i wonder
if this savagery is all we are when we are alone
