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August 9th
I dream of you on the couch,
your mouth like dead trees,
for the abstracts that I speak in,
for my thoughts resting in your hair,
for your sleeping Freudian beard,
and how I expire every week
because I cannot live in pairs.
How your quiet furnishes
wild seasons within my stomach.
You are a red circle, slashed,
and I want to be a daughter, a lover.
I am glass. You have all the privileges
and I am supposed to show you my bones.
Say anything, we will kill things
together in this room. I am still
scattered in too many places.
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