Falling from a tower of smoke and maple,
Sawdust in my palm lines vanishes
Under cool running water.
I am one great farmer’s tan
In the wind, unemployed, overjoyed.
My eyes feel vacuumed. I should sprint
Until they begin to water again.
Shaping a story in my mind, I draw
From the windowpane of a distant house.
I dream its chimney holds my chest fire,
Its wallpaper my love letters, then awake —
Carrying it whole in my unwritten story.
My eyes feel vacuumed. I should watch the sky
Until the city violates my view.
My senses depart — five beads of blood
Against a split projection of my unbeing.
I push forward with cheeks flushed,
As if the beads of blood were forever burned
Into the skies, visible like an eclipse, depending
On what side of the world you ran from.