It’s green inside I wash my hands and my face; I’m growing to the light Already losing the fight Nothing is a phantom, a father I watched walk out into the night Dream in time I’m moving back and forth, a fluid freed from causal lines Some sort of garden I primed I’ve walked this path before, an ecstasy I broke with my mind; that inescapable bind Stilled in white; distinctive empathy; an atavistic second sight: exactly everything right Lean in, engaging the frame, trip the invisible wire Received in kind My body covers a body, blotting out the light A hand embedded in mine Get fed in optimal places at suboptimal times Better than apathy, right?

I could be your center for the weekend, baby I could be your end in sight I could be your center for the weekend if you like I could be your dyer in the wool now, darling We could pick the color tonight I could be your dyer in the wool if that’s alright You could make a bargain with a bad thing, honey You could sign my name on the line You could make a bargain with a bad thing. I don’t mind. If I stay steady, would you stay mine? I might I could be your Jesus in the details, baby I could serve it up just right I could turn the water in your Nalgene into wine I could be the weakness in our wishbone, darling, snapping off the littler side I could be the weakness in our wishbone every time If I stay stable, would you stay alive? I’ll try

In the autumn of our summer years, black coffee and yellow tea, and the bitter dregs leaking through our teeth Half a thought and half a memory, half an opener, half a knife, half a mind to move to the east coast and start anew, but I won’t It’s not my mind growing out in the unweeded yard It’s not the cherry tree pink of a cartoon heart It’s not the slate gray of instinct and fear of the dark No, it’s just love, stupid love, stupid love In the spring of our thawed resurrection I saw a wren fly into our house, and the poor thing, all callow and lightning, can’t find its way out So it found its way up to the attic and I found my way up to it, and as I watched him sing I thought I heard children and winter hymns Maybe I did It’s not the fruit on the sidewalk, all trampled and rot It’s not the rattle of knowing your life’s yet to start It’s not the fearing of someday not playing a part No, it’s just love, stupid love Tired and pleased, you’re standing in line at the grocery store smiling at me Or bored, unbound, and seen? Who gives a shit about freedom if that’s all it means? Do you know what I mean? In the winter of our winter years I burrowed awful deep, and the gas line started leaking and put me to sleep And I dreamed of all of the fallow fields that I felt with my naked feet, and I wondered, “how much race is there left to complete?” I don’t know It’s not the end of the line that I’m frightened to reach It’s not the ethereal ringing of all that could be It’s not the coldness of silence or blindness of heat It’s not the pages and pages of menu I’ve seen It’s not the traction of loss or the people I meet It’s not the figs that all wasted and fell from the tree No, It’s just love, stupid love, Stupid love No, it’s just love, stupid love, Stupid love No, it’s just love, stupid love, Stupid love

The feel of 7:30 in a room I rent for quarters on the dime The taste of heavy breathing like cold metal on a tide from out of time washes over me, and then I see an angel from a place I’ve heard before walks in through the door, but I’m not sure He sits down on the couch to watch some sports I lay down on the floor The smell of sex and silence like that thing you meant to say but then forgot The weary men of Gouverneur have all laid down their ploughshares and just stopped trying to get free, and then I see an angel from on high stops in to say, “You can choose another name. Sweat out the shame.” She looks me in the eyes as if to speak. It’s the season of the meek. The sight of light contracting in the blood red hue of noses, barns, and skies The sound of church bells tolling through the ether to the bedroom where I lie The rainbow glow of prisms breaking Day-Glo trails to places I can’t find The honesty of mothers and the reek of good fruit rotting on the vine stopping up the wheel, and then I feel an angel’s hands are opening my mouth The words are coming out, spittle and doubt Rising from the city swell and streets It’s really not that deep An angel from on high stops in to say, “You can choose another name. Sweat out the shame.” They look me in the eyes as if to speak. It’s the season of the meek.

The last time that I saw you, you were waving from the door, Turtle Fur out by the car there, feet frozen to the floor You were looking out at something in the grayness of the morning The last time that I saw you, what it was, I wasn’t sure The last time I went to Boston, we drank Red Bull on the floor, played Set till early morning, watched videos from before. We ate sushi on the corner, bought candy at the store The last time I went to Boston, I knew I’d be back for more You were holding on to something You were affable and warm You were someone I looked up to, a better man for sure Remember our old music? Remember our old porch? Now you don’t live in Boston You don’t live anywhere anymore Can I tell you that I love you? Can I even up the score? I still make rice the way you taught me I see you every time I pour Can I hold on this forever? Can I listen at the door and hear you working in your bedroom? So much sound left to explore The last time that I saw you, we ate breakfast food and laughed We talked about the new year We joked about the past The last time that I saw you, we hugged and said goodbye I won’t be going back to Boston It’s just a place you left behind