Everything depends on how we see each other.
My animosity is out of order, ardor.
A goat tumbling down a mountain means
how terrible your face will become
once you each the bottom. Better to shield your eyes,
better to hold your breath–
this small fog warm against my forehead.
On the news, there are people rescuing
cars in a flood. The impossibility of good deeds,
wheels pulsing through such tall trees.
I held a mirror to the moon, saw myself
in true form– an animal lapping
at your fallen horns.
The cut on my knee winks at the floor.
I have fallen asleep again, tongue out.
Me: dead raccoon of the evening, pure
ingrate. In the kitchen, seeds sprout
in milk. Fruit flies greet my knee.
What grows here? My asparagus,
my squash vines curling around
your ankles. Gratitude in the overgrowth.
You blink in blooms, yellow & mine.
No one knocks anymore.
A boar rushes in and we shout.
You speak of your death
as if today the clouds weren’t
beautiful, weren’t split into two
halves of bread to keep us
fat. The first sign of guilt?
In the morning, we sleep with our faces
covered, sleepy little death masks.
When we steal bread from a stranger’s oven,
we leave our shoes on.