bringing her back

shut the windows

against the rain

for outside she smokes

and inside smells like sour-

drunkenness that’s plagued

by ice cold wind driven pains.

i had hoped our gardens

and paintings would remind her

of afternoons spent

with beautiful eyes

and pleasant voices.

but she quickly forgot.

in three parts

as you see 

it comes in three parts,

the first beingĀ 

a shadeless valley

with a glaring heat

on the neck and mouth.

second as an explorer 

made entirely of cotton wool 

with a long screaming tongue.

lastly, as a heart

incapable of partitioned 

liberties and loving.

she told me “goodbye”

when everything

in the rose

turns to lies

it’s thorns barbed

like eyes

on a razor’s edge

like a stick thin

silhouette of a smoking

figure in the shade

of dusk

to songs that carry 

my soul away

along a kaleidoscope 

of different feelings

and emotions. 

Unsuitable selves

he breathed 

to well-known speakers

between commotion

and motionless seriousness

in hopes that time 

may by formality 

design a simple refusal

to composure and disappointed

sequences that were far less

revolutionary as they were

self-destructive.