“whatever you choose to claim of me
is always yours: nothing is truly mine
except my name.”
~NaPoWriMo tweet
unless we break it into two parts,
the way your voice hears me
or is it
radio voices, actuality
no longer anything like
little contained pieces, just
a bunch of fluttering
what it feels like
embarrassment postponed,
accidentally large
and getting rid of jackets
they
come pouring out of me
what belongs to us, something of
metal,
of my arms beyond freeway off-ramps,
of all the places
my name has gone and left me
such as perfect,
consequential moments, let go
in the sense of
your nickname, slow and meaningless,
also, numbers i don’t count to
only days able to be piled
onto charts,
fingertips left
of combustion,
my own dream of horrible sailing
unbending, with cushion
large and open like
wet hair
becoming plausible, noise-filled,
like your terms, throwing sounds at
dust or living space, easiest
to let things stay round,
bright, or
a bit damp
when they allow small boxes to close
what it would feel
to crumble
in your mouth
i’m like a seahorse
saying things
through a radio wave
or backwards and outside love
with
something dry, your hands,
nowhere to go but toward less touching
factories turned upside down
like China,
where parts of us invent
reasons
for no longer being
spoken
held in place
yellow
why colors
were invented so quickly:
for our hunger,
how we know
when things are ripe.
