Number 2

i wonder where i'll be when I hear you died

and read whatever change occurs in all the things i wanted to tell you

will i simply forget them, i hope for this

more likely, they'll rewrite themselves and with the tone and tense of death mean more, accuse me more

and i'll have to slip a little dead language into every lively conversation

with anyone who reminds me of you

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six birds fly the form of freckles near your mouth i knew that you were the face of god that the sky was there for reading


god told me to get a haircut i was looking for my haiku about winter i dream i am already at work between the cars of the train a single flake of snow i have to write some of this shit down


i want to taste the female flavoring in your skin in your mouth to begin writing place the tip of the pencil at the top left corner of the page the last time i got my hair cut my mother was alive