from clear across the street. as for me, i am getting
used to calling myself insane

Can we meet somewhere outside of the erotic and the pornographic,

in a homeland of the mind, at a ramshackle gas station in South Carolina

I've modified the memories and
dismantled the wants who once

beckoned with heavy eyelids and
loosened the vowels in my mouth.

Watching the waves crash onto the
sandy shore. A broken beach umbrella blown
over by the breeze.

He makes me little scarves for my ankles
they flap at the wind like hermes’ boots

One day I asked him never to touch me again

I perch in a swayback chair
out on my porch, beaming
at the smear of stars above.

When I went in, women I knew were cat people;
at my release, each of them owned a dog.