There’s a beginning, then
a pause.

 

I.

Deep within the farthest recesses
of cracked marble,
a bird finds an ember,
and swallows it whole.

II.

Fire drips like
the candle
from your first birthday:
a volcanic eruption of
horseshoes.
We spin ‘round a pole
incessantly hopeful.

III.

A haunted tree
follows you in your dreams,
and sometimes I think I see
its shadow, reaching outwards
over the horizon from
your pupil.

IV.

Ghosts live in the faded
watermarks on the mirror
in our bathroom –

V.

They spread like roots.
farandwideand
knobbed like your spine,
against my chest.

VI.

We’ve tried this before,
but I’m fond of repetition
and I want to think
you could be fond
of me.

VII.

At least,
that’s what you told me with
flashlight morse code
beneath the covers.

VIII.

We can drink rainbows
because there’s oil in the water
that breeds phantasmagoric
fungi that coat our ribcage,
weakening our wings’ clasp.

IX.

he’s not exact.

 

The leaves brown and it’s a sign of the fall.

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