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Lifeboat.
I’ve swallowed enough pills from paper cups,
and worn a forest full of paper gowns.
Just to learn the difference between
lynching copper deities with Christmas lights, and
the expansive oceans of ink that wash up on the
city shores. Stuffed in sapid envelopes.
Sealed with chapped kisses.
There is still enough leftover electricity, crackling
and hissing in my brain to light up skyscrapers and,
To pack away dreams, into cardboard cartons.
Leaving behind bits of smoldering Beijing newspapers
and puzzle piece memories blurred by cataracts.
(Shapes and shadows)
Only to be left with greater feats than space,
more fears than curls. Scabs than skin.
This is when the reel unwinds, and the
Clocks spin faster, pages pile up and time unravels.
Half truths and love of lust unwind into frangible laments,
knotting into deadly self abhorrence.
All the words have dribbled out of the paper cup groves; down my chin.
Creating a mighty river of verbs and pronouns on my paper gown.
For an instant of instances I want to use your words as a life raft.
Drift out to sea, and cross ink oceans.
Just to whisper to you while you sleep that everything will be okay.
Though before your eyelids begin to flutter I will be gone,
having planted a forest of birch trees, for you to hang your own deities.
