me in your deep
dirty pockets
smell like home
help me once again slip
into that threadbare shirt
that’s worn itself down on my stubborn frame
cloak
my thoughts till they curve
beneath the weight of all that
insistent one on one
reliable
if you’re anything at all
but vapor or an occasional smoke
occasional pen in hand
on occasion
I make a list of things to do
then as I cross them off you’re roused
to reach for me
but my poems
they make you slow smile
sit back
and wait
it’s a chemical love story
we are unspoken tracks in the flesh
we are bloom and wilt and bloom again
til death do us part into stars
complete
a dirty pocket dweller
a high beam burning up
a fleeting springtime bloom
of this won’t last
there’s nothing to fix.
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