I am happier than a dead
pig in sunshine; the smell
of citronella weaved in its teeth.
I love you more than you love me.
Now show me where it is,
so I can cut it off.
If you are slowly turning to a specter
and are going to haunt me,
what does that say about me?
I coveted you property:
That when you died
you would leave everything
you owned, to me.
I planned the way
I would redecorate.
Kite flying. Slow and red.
Then bearded man in the wheelchair
rolls around the room.
White sink, child legs protruding from
Faucet holes—two legs, one hot, one cold,
gauze socks, porcelain sandals.
Black lines thick with scuff.
I carry the city under my fingernails.