I can only call you
up in the dark
and when I do

you noise yourself
into the ceiling
silver-blackened,
one eye deep
in a bruised planet.

Sell me something,
ask me why my
teeth are chattering
when you know
I've been praying and          
collecting barbs

to keep your twitchy
legs from
moving,
from waking up
the wife in
my throat
the one that
paints your hair

black like
story-book ink,
fully knowing
nothing ever
feels the
same as it
looks,
knowing

that a red
-jeweled crown
does not always
make the man
but will keep
him warm
while he's waiting.

Even though it's
late I worry
about the birds
of my country
and if you've
ever seen a thing
that can eat trash
and change
its own color.

As I write
this you are
changing color and
keeping quiet

while something
somewhere
is burned
from the feet
up
while

northeastern
songbirds
fly out
of your wounds
in search of
something
that used to be
safe enough
for us
to swallow
and then
go sing about.

__

There will always be someone who wishes the worst, most horrifying thing in their life was having to wash my dishes. The best I can do is make that person into a list of words, give them legs, tell them to run.