Extinct Birds Carry Raindrops Down From the Sky and Into My Mouth

Sometimes the taste makes me question death.

Where I'm from, you smuggle your feelings

in the quiet magic of night, from porch to bedroom.

 

There were times we'd scribble conspiracy theories

on the apartment walls like calligraphy, while waiting

on word about friends too crazy behind their wheels.

 

I can't quite recall the first time joy squeezed

out of my cracks, but I do recall learning

how to fill it all in again.

 

It's like doing cartwheels on a table made of mud.

How it breaks apart and you can suddenly feel

the bones of flowers. It's ecstasy.

 

 

A Weekend of Rituals for Staying Alive

For dessert, we drown the past in a barnyard

hot tub and then watch Amish horses gallop

toward the highway, where the sun rests its laurels

in the ashtray eyes of runaways. We've been through

these riddles before. I'm wearing aviator sunglasses

and you're curled up in a shopping cart like the ghost

of a bowling ball. If we keep pushing like this

something beautiful is bound to happen.