The most beautiful hearse                    I have ever seen
is parked in front of my stoop
Perched            hands folded for six to eight weeks
twinkling like a siren                               a new idea of love

Trees are planted but don’t exist yet
They are leaning non existent               into us
A trough of hearts meets me in the anxious sun
I could rot here

Something like          the holy spirit
pours you over bruised ice
There isn’t anything             more to say than holy
Beautiful men never looking upon me

I take music self-stirred       and sleep
alone           curve into the morning like an almond
My shoulders                          lush as romantics
You wash up on a barstool
smooth heartache                  black sand