Don’ts and the Glittering Dew
Fireflies in the treeline at the supermoon pink
to see your own blood in our neighborhood
playground equipment low to the ground and
rusted. Swingsets have their own story
arc and jumping off at the highest point
just when you're flying my god you're flying.
I learned how to play bassoon because
whalesong so I could not resist muting
myself with a wad of double-ply twisted
into a dirty floor dragonfly playing
the bell pressed into your belly. You darkest
whip I only wanted to make you move.
The humid blond baleen you call your child
is a birddog in the suburban music of
blemishes. There is a nest above the magma
dream. Go there to the calamity and affection
of your knee scar that redpainted night
porch of some barbecue family joint in Roswell.