I have the red envelope.

Inside,

A letter to short romantic desires.

Above,

My blinking search.

 

The watchman guards his watch.

The heavens crack.

Our teeth fill in the gaps.

During the summer,

shining in my mouth,

the mirror you use

when you delete your names,

hard as dreams.

You will disappear to deny it.

I write a thesis on sneakiness

And thieving.

 

Time of molded bread,

famine dance.

In the background,

a man,

little fire of love.

 

You open the windows to me,

but shut up all the doors,

comment on my perfect blood.

 

During our mutual culture,

your flashlight sprouts at a time

strained power goes out.

 

Guns

in front of my text.

A leading word from you,

a call from your clouds,

would flood me,

dry in the valleys

without you.

 

Eating smiles,

You leave your central home without thought.

You do not need shoes.

The world is bearing your hardships,

with broken kingdoms flapping in the wind.

 

Your heart considers me,

My high gloss weeping and homey pleading,

And donates your medicinal attention

elsewhere.

My private demon is winning

My wine hazy spirit.

The sunset cools

on a small snowfall.

 

The shining light,

it’s always washed in bleach.

Endless beach,

tears.

Sometimes we cry for our own sake,

cold,

and there are no boxes to contain

our needy mouths.

 

We all have been an empty harvest.

We have not been sown.

It’s easy,

to breathe tears into the body,

eyes to see.

In the fireplace,

every representative of the land.

 

I write to her in autumn leaves.

“You left something in the alphabet. ”

 

I am busy at my roots.

I’m not my good, unclean self –

the sun’s desire,

by chance.

 

Shadow autumnal mysteries with me.

The leaves will make me.

At the sea level a polished ice.

Under it,

two polite humanoids that cannot pass,

Their painful courtesy increasing

against the cold crusted water.

 

I have the urge to cry.

I have for years.

 

The storm swirls deeply,

Blurring boundaries between

The dead and the sea.

 

The winter will sail

beyond borders and shore,

an elegant hole in the warm web of living.

 

For now,

nude humanoids,

Scratching at the well-kept surface

Of a national ice.

The pure cleanliness of innocence,

Or the unclean marketplace desires?

To be friendly

or experienced?

 

Our sons come with the scope of power,

With the confidence of a multitude

fed on the milk of love

and grown in crocheted glimmer.

They will learn from a trick candle

How to live.

 

Our daughters?

They come with blood,

to give birth to thorns.