You are a monsoon that everyone sees on the horizon,
And underestimates. “How bad can a little bit of water be?”
The natives are running. My heart is running, burrowing like a hedgehog into my spleen.
My feet stay planted on the ground.
I want to live inside your voice,
Inside the guitar string strung by your hardened prints
And spend my days vibrating with lids barely alive,
Falling into dreams inside a sound like love feels.
I want to take the train today,
leave the city streaming behind me like a plain
that doesn’t know it turns people into chaff,
Discarded by the wind, not kneaded into the warm dough
with your troubled knuckles, with nicks near the nails.
I want to plant a garden, and rip it back up,
Wake up with a bee buzzing near my back,
Get caught in the drapes and sigh open the shutters.
Hear them bang against the peeling siding,
reach out a hand and pick a cherry from the apple tree,
and run to the outdoor dunny
in the morning mist.
I want to push at your skin until the wrinkles
iron out, like a dress shirt pulled from the floor.
A reverse living of every day so we can live
every day over again in just the same way.