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1.

but last night, a moth kissed my forehead
while i slept—

        & its wings were soft
        & so my dreams were softened.

dreams of silverfish
& paper chewed to pulp.

        dreams of turning
        the pillow over.

2.

but last night, you slept
        beside me

&, as a moth, 
        kissed my forehead.

3.

i see your wings
                in daylight

pressed into your back.

my love, 
        blue moth-prince

my dreams were thorns
& nails.

Insomnia

unrelenting nightmare       velvet
& pale asters       a quiet grammar
the silver twine woven 
around my heart & lungs

evaporated midnight cloud
blood cardinal willow branch
confessions of an absent god
confessions        of a god-hunter

this savage garden        of baby’s breath
& thorns     hogweed & oleander
catmint       strangling
all other roots

my sleep       the dominion of blue ether
my pillowcase        black with ink

Self Portrait as Comfy Mattress

1

the heft of a deflating ribcage, those graceful sweeps of bone protecting what is vital & soft

2

how the first blades of sunlight can caress a stirring cheek & bad dreams burn away as rose-orange beams lay kisses upon the eyes

3

in lieu of a lover’s arms, I offer you pillows & blankets. a neck held gently by something firm

4

yet, a loneliness dwells there still. before bed, dahlias almost erupted from your chest

5

you were waiting for correspondence from someone thousands of miles away, someone who awakens to air saturated with another ocean’s salt

6

why love a person who dwells beside distant water

7

how a single text can scythe away wildflowers threatening to overtake

8 

the heart

9

in dim lamplight, you placed the phone facedown on the floor. breathed
three quick breaths before glancing in its direction. it didn’t shudder 
or make a sound. you’ve grown too old for magical thinking 

10

they love me, they love me not

11

chanted the trespassing flowers

12

there were your thoughts: spiraling through the dim lit bedroom

13 

while streetlamps blazed & peered into your window. your room is on the third floor of some house

14

& you love this house—the languid years you’ve lived here—but birds & tall structures know nothing of privacy

15

you’d prefer to spiral in private

16

&, before bed, there was no new text. nothing sharp to prevent green stems

17

from rising up from the crypt of your anxiety: 

18

a strange pressure in the skull. no pain, just a deeper attention
to how the body can sometimes be a trap. the need for food & touch, the neverending
needs of flesh. it was 1 am that saved

19

you. eyelids shut by no will of your own. sleep arrived like the plucked feathers of geese

20

& I held you while you slept