29 Aug 2008
The scorched earth whistles kisses as you canoe the sky
shoving clouds into an ipod for later.
He collates different kinds of nuts for long journeys.
I use them as confetti at the wedding of my favorite squirrel.
Our mothers die in the lands they were born in.
We practice harpooning imposters from a mile off.
You scorch your desires into my garden with a cattle prod.
I complain that the dishwasher has lost its ability to drain.
She takes a highlighter pen into a confession booth.
I hurl grief into strangers’ bank accounts.
She posts X-rays of your eyelashes to the Pope.
I realise the real star of ‘Singing in the Rain’ is the lamppost.
You blow bubbles at the bliss factory.
I dance across the gravitational pull.
The tips of your mouth become the spires of the Kremlin
pointing the birds away from the oil spill.