poem

Operator

I emptied down a different street
and it was plotted with fallen palm fronds
and the spit of overripe oranges
pulped by car tires


My fingers wandered and found

You were the bay windows
of a house

I wetted the skin
under your eyes
and we swam in it

The bones in your face
drifted like hands too


Thunder woke and legged around
the block
We strode a little
animal to keep up

The lung of the valley collapsed
when we peeked skeletal spine and tail
through the grove-lush burial soil

We grew trees
We grew fruit
We grew the thick moist gasp