I’m sitting in your room
because everything I have undone
has been transplanted
like a tombstone rubbing
or democracy,
& though whispering shadows
may say the same words,
it’s not the same inside
& never will be.
For twice as long
as anyone cares
to forget, small deserters
who could be matchbox sailors
wrap their hands in flaming linen
& lie down with our dead
dogs out in the backyard,
smudging pesky memories
all over the patio furniture.
At least Mother’s not alive
to see the state of decay.
Okay, okay…
maybe you just need
a little push, maybe we all need
steak every once in a while.
If the leaves fall up
& the rains fall up
& the planes fall up,
then the corpses
will dance to the altar.
If I am to trust your taste,
let me taste your trust.
A chair can be a pedestal,
but a window is just a window.
