Goldenrod

My head is silent and pink. Elm. Cedar waxwing. Kingbird. I prefer people will strong noses. Hair
grazing my chest. I haven’t made a promise, and I’m still. I’m not lonely, and I don’t make rooms
neat. There’s a person nearby who’s going on a date. Who’s interested in touching. Who doesn’t
trust mystery, prefers plain. Five months have passed, and my boat isn’t tipping over but is stuck
on the same muddy waves, and I’m bobbing up and down under a sky that doesn’t speak. How
boring. Silver birch tree. If I could live in a place with monkeys and swing and bark and crow and
loud with louder and loud. I don’t want to become so kind that I can only be silent. I don’t want
dull air. I don’t want to trip anyone. Once I was so underage that I couldn’t go out without
permission. The other night you blossomed in my teeth. I was so scared the season changed.
Goldenrod. Cedar waxwing. Kingbird. Kingfisher. Infinitely held in the skyline just above my
head all names hanging still. I’ll be on the muddy ocean held back by my own dumb rules. The
street is blank. The water is blank. The stars are blank. I forget the names of formations. When
geese fly, I see no geese. I see feathers in the air and hear how wrong I was, so wrong, you know
how wrong I was and am the sound of the ground still under my feet.