Oh how I loved you,
mottled toad on stilts.
Swollen body covered in black and purple flowers
blooming beneath the rice
paper membrane of your skin.
Permanently melded to the beige couch,
perfuming the room with your breath,
a silent ode to Philip Morris.

I found in her a narcoleptic swan
tipped in the edges with wax. As
the sea looped in I heard her belly
song rise as an acoustic brushfire.

She rained on in the closet
inside me as a dying race
of half glimpsed whales.
The oil fell as tapioca
from my eyes, hands nailed
to the lime green oars from
a garage sale, the breath
on her shattered compacts
drifting as plankwood in the sea,
stragglers in the omitted spaces;
absent in the melody's clip of fallen
fingernails, no wreath, no memoria.

Panic

On average our hearts beat from 60 to 100 times a minute.
That is of course, when you aren’t going around being a person:
Spotting someone attractive, walking, laughing or panicking.
Not five minutes of 100 beats but a trillion butterflies
or panicked wasps that try to escape your mouth during a speech.

A wanderer in the world,
an alien from Sirius,
the Galaxy of Lyra, is where I’m from;

I have no marriage, no husband,
I’m alone in the earth;
I have no real friends, no close associates;
I’ve returned to a wanderer’s life,
Free to find my purpose, my mission,
Free to create my own destiny, life path;
I now walk my talk, speak my truth;

I’m a wanderer, a Lyran
I’ve explored the planet, the cosmos;
It is where I belong, off the grid.