Checkin' things out by the river.
The package you requested,
cannot be
delivered.
Because the black cat
at the fourth floor
window
is watching. Because the lantern
creaks
and sways. Because the key took
a wrong turn. Because
the address book except
one page was thrown
away. Because the body
and the blood behind
the shed was
everything
you meant to send
instead.
Is the perfectly, perfectly
perfectly round,
round, smooth skin, tight
sweet cool
I can roll
on my tongue just to roll,
roll, bite, chew into
pieces of heaven.
Is when you say
One end, stem,
five-tip star
at the other–
Not round.
Is when I say
That may be.
But what
I love best
about Sundays…
are the blueberry, blueberry,
blueberry
kisses
from you.
There are houses that
we live in. Bags of
bones and promise rivers
want
to wash away. There is
time, less left
to play with. Voices,
fingerprints and hearts
to throw. There are newborn
dreams to rock, mayflies
to catch and chase
with mirrors, Space
can’t help
but learn to fit
the way
We fill.