November Rain (2021)

So much was magic then, silent

Autumn, coffee childhood, our rain

tarp was soaked — the tenderness of sweat, 

the stars, you grabbed

my wrist, clenched to confess 

lost testaments: the stars have faded, the stars has fallen,

yet you are here, whispering a solemn promise: Yes,

this is magic, sticky plastic tarp stuck

to a fervor, hands running from guilt. Quick,

press palms, pray

these stars are not God’s eyes, they are 

not a miracle, we are 

covered in the rain, quick

show me Heaven, prove this love, not lust, not 

fever sins spinning spindle wheel.

Show me, you are mad

Autumn, Red Bull childhood, touched

by Holy fingers. I end you

find you flicker you fade you fall.

In November’s rain, we bloom 

into puddles of hysteria, stomping rubber rain boots to rage in.

but one day, this hour will be golden again (2021)

Dust gathers at light’s fall to

bring no orange sublime, for

this hour is not golden yet

it gleams. Sweating through

friction two hands meet:

stickily sweet fingertips trace

scars mindlessly into the arm, 

drawing hastily it is fed clean.

Subsistence is a breadcrumbed

suit of armor, worn stalely until

bedtime – you kiss these palms

protect them inside a womb-

like longing: acidic yet raw

lips with no healing, hands 

with no shielding.