She is X and Y and Numbers
She is teeth
and clavicle
and bones,
the grit in fingernails
He is the fatty tissue,
the arteries,
the holy atheist
in her heart
they are
tearing, stretching,
moving, being, their
breathing is aligned.
She speaks in funny.
Whispers.
This town ain’t big enough for
all of us, so let’s settle down.
And sing home sweet hallmark
and print obscurities on our walls.
She lures him in like bait
and shouts:
We’ll catch ideas instead of fireflies
and dress to fit our moods.
Not the weather, a holiday
for every time we smile.
She’s about to pass out
but not before!
Your hope is like your mind,
you’ll keep losing it.
We’re down for the count
But,
There’s always yesterday.
There’s always this.
