frame

i look at my toes, 

 the other way is easier, 

in a gallon of lysol, glasses 

gleam 

nadir of something cute

and sideways. 

i look at you. 

you are there but for the thought of you, 

getting older now, grass stains are now just stains, 

the trains run away, your feet lack toes. 

i look at you- 

deformed, waiting like a lion

for its queen to feed it, 

  but you are the softest pink, 

  somewhere in a park 

  memorising the sounds 

  of ducks. 

one swan might die, they mate for life, 

your scars have selected you as their heir

and silent throne.

you want another to crawl into the skin, 

probably below the knee, so you can see me

stare,            

skirt swishing against the tide

frowned upon by your sweater, 

like a symbol for awkward 

juxtaposition- i cower behind 

the sun. 

i know that you like trains, like their gait, 

their soft rhythms and clicks,  

clipped of toes, pretending the rails 

were sand, 

i think i made you out of clay. last night, 

when 'The Old' had shut, the clinging 

hands and beer nuts had overwhelmed me, 

i think i think

i saw you kissing the sky, Hendrix would not pretend, and i borrowed you from some abstract, 

stuck you on my wall.


--may,11