Eve Rounds

this is

the kind of day

my jaw bone gnashes on an invisible feast
craving to create
craving to feast on the creation

but with instrument missing from his stand
and sight taking the vacation i was meant to have

i am stripped

though a happy heart acts as an industrial grade furnace
this chill ripples beneath the skin in blues and slates
a continent’s distance within
the disparity between spectral beauty and simple pain

away with starvation
skeletal clenching
stomach is full on the

but ok but

write some poems that i can give him ok (but they’ll all be about the hims) good idea bad idea no good twinning and losing

a 5 7 5 for e

peering through thick glass your back to me is waiting any news at all? running down broad steps into your brotherly arms crying without breath!


is it the ticking of the third hand or the faucet dripping onto discount bulk blueberries both measuring time “going in circles” as he would

a poem about you for you (and you)

you are your own though your temperament reminds me of him your head is more ripe mango while his was more soft plum my love

i don’t even know

how long it’s been. haven’t been counting days haven’t counted backwards on the calendar. haven’t bothered to reread my own words. haven’t been missing you

the five senses

your blue eyes and crooked lippy smile which i inherited that tiny soft bristle brush for your basically bald head the white corvette a campfire cards