twelve hours green.he calls me and tells meMore Like This
that his toothbrush
is an ocean green like
his fading bedroom
walls. and i call and
think that i dont have
a favourite number. but
i dont even know what
we should spend twelve
hours watching the
clouds fly past
and twelve staring at
the fragments of shining
rocks plastered across
the sky, until we leave
a dent in the grass
in the shape of
the different type of
world we live in.
i paint my hands in
speechless patterns because
colours always spoke better
ManuscriptI have written us down, typed us up, and sent us out.More Like This
they will edit us, and say some parts are no good.
but I want your run-ons, your lack of punctuation; and you are so easy
on my weak binding, my damaged spine.
CathieSalt-and-pepper hair contrasts sharply with the crisp, starched pillow;More Like This
bone-thin arms resemble bed rails--
tears in my arms, the morphine drip in your vein.
My inner rage refutes your calm acceptance.
You ask if we are waiting for you to die: no.
We are waiting for a miracle,
we are waiting for you to heal--
We are waiting for something that will not happen.
We are stretching for something that is out of reach.
We are holding onto our obsolete hopes, the small fragments of our lives
so closely, we cannot see the bigger picture
In a paradox, God is calling you clearly,
but we can't seem to hear His voice--
only the silence ringing in our ears
as the monitor stops
your breathing ceases
your face un-creases--
and, for the first time in years,
you run Home.