(storm)

outside there is
thunder and I am thinking about
lightning, trees split in two

(all the good ones are taken already)

i want to be like
bass (now i want to say nectar)
low-toned ambrosia that's me

(desire: in parts)

I want your unlaced
fingertips slicing down my spine.
Bones collapsing.

Your milky way entrails
smear sand across the harbor.
Fishermen weep.

Cities flee from us.
Our love is an earthquake.
You burn me to ash.

(I want to be lit up: a not-quite haiku in seven parts)

I want to be lit up
like bright
bits of tinfoil on

baby's heads
like
a UFO landing

not like
diamonds, blood, not this
rough

patch I've been plodding through, sand
paper, but like
sand

flakes of mica
shining through
and like

fireflies

in dark fields
forests
blackened

exploding with lights

(I hide behind nonsensical things and declare you a loser if you do not "understand," OR, In Which I Impersonate A Hipster)

stung was a stinging.
baklava shaved legs your mother's armpits.
poop sex feminism.

(fracture)

and you bit me,
and blood ran, and you demanded
I make a choice