on birthdays,
i’m afraid to let balloons drift too far away from my palm
of fear they’ll lose their shape.
culture will never be color fast
no matter how many times you try to wash it—
in the hot water cycle
with the harsh detergent that promises on its label to get the impurities out—
it’ll just keep bleeding
They are amber saplings from my heart
pushing against the world
making room for themselves
amongst plastic hangers
and fast moving traffic
“Many words and then disgust.”
I’m guilty of it, too.
But I went to the cascading mass for seven minutes.
Remember when?
I don’t.
Lighter than ashes, darker
than the collars of men
in pressed suits. Locked doors.
Forget to be hushed, to hush oneself
pass hash on the rooftop terrace
of some clown motel or hotel-on-sea
stay paranoid til the first utterance of blue humid dawn
To name a thing is to know it.
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If you are sleeping now, mama,
that is good,