Mouthpart

We make up the newish.  The "ish" on the lay part.
The pick-up, the orderly wax: the body twined.
Your wedding gives itself up in my mouth to shudder it.

Over walls, we miss the outer welt.  Your shoulders
wear my rash well. My pick axe is no longer violent,
temporarily stilled she melts.

I know I speak only in emotional territory. Some pick-up
sticks, the puzzle on your shelves. What you could have solved,
what you did. 

A Pasteur

Milky, meta bedding.  Your sweetness. 
A lip gets puckered and wrinkles.  This too 
is momentous.  We watch the laws of physics
and know ourselves to follow.  

You can't write about anything.  Or what is meant to be meaningful. You double, you mirror yourself as if you could whittle out what fires the world.  It is one of those days where the small things (recycling man rattling the cans outside) get conflated with importance (the moment you know you are leaving, you will leave it behind).  The blue blur is a lozenge.  You suck and suck on it until you get to the ocean.  A wide flat place where your mouth fills with water.  A solace on it.

Refuel

Across the block, I can see that someone's brought flowers up on the roof.  Carefully lining them along the wall, close to the edge, so they stick up like tufts of hair. The sky full of itself like a mouth turned blue. Looking like rain, even so, even so.  The scorched laughs of kids.  Always those kids handcuffing each other to play at what it means to recognize, then separate.  To hold together, hold off, hold back. Laying on my back, sleeping as a way to connect to all this.  Or not sleeping, thinking.  These days, closer to the edge, but not unpleasantly so.