20 June 2016

rainy evening I

you woke me up, and
we’re here now. I write poetry
in the damp insides of my mouth
and try not to break your
overfull heart.

the sky shudders and darkens. I hide
behind a bower in the mango tree, and smoke
a lonesome cigarette. the smoke is a silver thread
the wind pulls out of my mouth. like a secret poem.

listen, I still don’t know
whether I’m living okay. but I have words
like loose change in my pockets, and dreams
the size of cities. light slants onto my 
fingers and paints them gold.

my mother and I are listening
to the music you sent me. some of it
leaves me billowing, larger than the frame
of my little bones. a rag left in the wind
that expands to the size of a sea.

in the distance, I hear a train rumble.
the sky is quiet now, it has spent its fury.
everything is dewdrops and damp skin and light.
the lost birds start to call to me again. I tell them

to wait. to go on. to find me again.

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