In February the waterslides are a downturned expression
pressing their wet yellow feelings against the graying interstate.
The morning shakes off
with the banging of the bells,
as the sky slips easy into a precocious 5 o'clock shadow.
In the architecture of my mind
there is too much breathing in the bedchamber
& sweet turmoil between the sheets.
My language center is bleeding on the bathroom floor,
showing off its red arrhythmia.
Its flow breaks the paradigm of bleeding.
The syllables shatter red into being
hotter than the softness of a vein conceding
-the words too irregular to have come pulsing from an artery.
My language center is menstruating from the mouth,
lips giving way to red possibility.
I've got blueprints & road maps falling from my eyes
& this dancing nonchalance is killing us.
Let our motions crack open syntax
stick a finger of doubt into the idea of a nutshell,
pry the universe out
& let the stars stoke your laughing vulnerability.