dusty séances on the
crayons and candles
ride on the back
I’m so cold I’m so warm
reaching expert level self-sabotage
I was happy, happy
with my fingers like tendrils of
summer vegetables wrapping around
your sternum popping at the core
of all the stairwells I remember
had the most stray letters
on the windowsill and
the door was marked with a name
the day was
gray and orange while I lay
still and felt nothing
is the season for dripping fruit from open eyes.
stale sweat mixed with the fresh stuff
in a cyclone of ripe summer
makes me think of
slicing up your calves and eating them
for the iron.
tripping with multicolored birds
cannot for my life remember what we did with our bikes.
boiler room streaming
to keep the party going but
no one wants to do poppers right now.
out of the candy dark
the three of us
and on the subway platform
sweet and sour we
and danced by ourselves to ancient songs
until we were new