in the same bed
two of the same, two generations above
where i was standing,
i told you, in brooklyn

monday night,
previous planes,
handheld conversation between us,
(over oceans, not land-- to be understood)
by your facial expression
a forest in the attic
a hidden chest of lockets
buried beneath the roots of our homeostatic inclinations,
to be found.

a market of vegetables
vibrant colors, with
a sunlight bursting above our heads
spilling down our arms, to the warming black pavement
he told me to take the A back home,
take him with me, i wanted!
to only miss a poetry class, i wanted!
to be with him, instead!
to lie in the bed, to sleep, with another's heartbeat;
i wanted!

i imagined, then, a desert river
bursting through trees (which were above),
ripping through brush,
we were floating
but still,
there was space between us

An étude
formulating in your mind
a black fungus
swimming between your bones,
and further we swam,
under enemy camps
jellyfish in rivers
a sting to your brother, but a campsite revisited time and time again
you were exposed, but i wanted only for myself
a similarity in forms, but
a much smaller beating of hormonal inclinations had understood
besides her brother,
a restoring of diamonds
in clouds beneath the bonfire of our beings
if i pleaded with you, would you have had it to give?
to have a complete lack of presence
would somehow be increasingly well (in my opinion--
besides a small cookie shop,
an art exhibit,
a sleeping under trees,
besides a man reciting poetry,
a tired mother's uvula,
and a slow drowning)