isn't anything

isn’t anything

car scissors at the crossroads,
have sheared the morning,
from the end of
night and the blue
white
ghost
moon,
heavy fogged and branch bound,
poked into the guttering twilight
on brittle fingers.

words gather in my hands
like a dream of crumbling teeth,
swimming in my gaze
of lostalgia.

i want to take care of you
until there are no more moons.

the landslide of beautiful chances
as the years fracture
like calloused pillars, and

as i lay me down to sleep,
i choke on brick dust
from a lovers’ leap.

waiting at the bus stop
i wait for anything.
and the morning fails.
ailing in pentimento;
the panting wet autumn days
from long ago,
beckon back through this morning:

where did it go?

the lazy afternoons, fucking and
feeding each other ice cream
on a damp tie-dye bedspread,
Miles Hunt
eyeing us from the ceiling.

the way the strawberry smoke
clung to yesterday’s clothes;
tangled on the floor
like an alphabet for lovers.