I’ve started to love tossing and turning.
Sweat popping from my pores like birds’ prayers
taking flight from the marsh of my skin. A heron
curls at the ends of the bed , an error

The earthquakes are out in full force today,
murdering soulful intervals and lavishing aviation
on these doleful growling houses. Cicadas cave in.
In bed I’m translucent and murmuring across

I span every lucidity. I’d love to get started
on feeling, on seeing through my wet wings
into the steaming mud and bucolic latticework
so I can find that restless fulcrum again.

I’ve started to love wrecking your car.