Then the cicadas gnawed
the wrong moon.
And, for a few minutes, I was dead
to me. Of course
the past was on its way
back to us: turns out
our heads, split
and throbbing like cantaloupe
under the sky’s teeth,
would be just fine after all.
A map of Florida told me so,
the oranges and astronauts
meeting at the center.
I threw my window
through your window
and we met halfway
between the Alligator Motel
and a landfill
to have it out,
tearing up mangrove roots, singing
bones and numbers.
Our names began
to lose their touch.
Our hands let go.
Pretty sure every pier
is out to get me.
Incredibly I dissolve.

Part propeller, part rock,
all water-music. Part glue

and the bruised stories
of winter I can’t shake.

Strange clouds plummet
behind the fence

of last night’s dream
where I held

a flower’s tongue hostage.
I house tiny

houses of shadows.
They buzz behind

my eyes, and never blink.
But me? These days

I’m losing more
and more of my goodness.

I’m scratching my ghosts.
Part of me decides

to split. Part of me uneven
and a razing new color.

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