Together we will talk right down to Earth
We are living the former lives of desperate trees
uncommonly decent in an open-faced sky.
I’m learning how to open your face like a window,
how to dream a failure into soft existence
and leave it to shriek and shriek like a tiny worm
unfollowing its prey. You can still die here.
You can do it beautifully. We are ancient bees
scouring arms in the sunlight, betting our lives
on the impossibility of perfect sequential rains.
My open mouth begins to soften.
My open mouth is a stylish casket.
My open mouth has a small gloomy future
in human consumption and customer service.
I sometimes wonder how much time I’ve left
to be rich instantly, to be a grave remark
about the instancy of those exhausted rose buds in the spring.
Your status updates roam inside my holy head.
I would love to hear how Jesus communicated significance
and where he placed his hands when he spoke suggestively
of greater beliefs, shapes in the sky that never resemble
anything but vastly different breeds of misunderstanding.
Whenever somebody pauses too long in the middle
of talking I assume they are about to die.