Jessica Morey-Collins



Halfway into the mural, he evaporates.
The scaffold wilts under his blanch. After
a few years, his curator lands among the adjectives
of your favorite city, and the outline waits.
The flutter comes west, buys nylons, photographs
a handful of too whiting islands. Violence keeps
better stuttered under lids. The curator wishes
for color. His shadow melts up a stairwell.
Then, all the God gathers in my laugh:
all these jazzy anvils drop. All these
beautiful young humans who should
have gotten to be awkward. And you,
_______him, me, confused, dipping
your cock into the plainest paints.



Division mends the trampoline
where your leg punctured the landing
of a double-front flip, your knee

startled through to nothing.

Stunned, a yelp leapt
from your throat, a chorus
of cloud dizzied the blue that was

us. The average of those days

turned out to be pavement, but
focus kept the grassland massive,
and the shape of your lips dulled

my thirst. Honesty turned out
to be a desert god. We wait
for our lawns to yellow.



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