Like stopping mid-sentence.
Like beginning a paragraph with an ellipsis.
each burning with a hurt that keeps spinning long lies
things like He just wants to fuck or
She was happier as a whore or
Love is a birdhouse (batbox? fire escape?) held together
with semen for glue.
(did you only say that because
jizz looks like Elmer's?)

Let's do lunch,
tie my hair in knots (for untangling later)
sit me down on a couch in a trendy dessert bar,
and ask for a second date.

Forget what I said about glue,
make reservations for three at the eleventh hour:
you, the squid, and me.
By squid, I mean the past.
I mean Korean food.
I mean the bus full of chickens bound for New Delhi.
Those three can have our seats, we have
a date to keep in an abandoned trailer in the lake.
We have little white butterflies to keep in a jar.
We have carpenter's nails for making air holes.
We have carpenter ants for making ant hills.
We have carpenter bees for buzzing.
We have painter's pants and writer's block
and Custer's last stand.
We have wounded knees and buried hearts.

Like a song that stops with the singer being shot,
moths flutter a few picoseconds ahead of the bullet.

I am the moon,
hanging like an infinite bare lightbulb
on everybody's porch,
Faraway mothflame.
And you are...?
Leonard Cohen. Leonard Woolf.
Mister Reed. As in,
where Pharoh's daughter found Moses.
Did you mistake her for me?
Could baby Moses tell the difference between
the princess and his sister?
He couldn't even tell the difference between a crown
and a hot coal.

I am always taking
the one that burns me
and putting it in my mouth.
I am always taking.
And you are...?
The forgetful luna moth,
the lame fluttering of my heart.