by Peter Schwartz
h.
staying alive takes two hands
but the implied traffic of having slept in a bed
weighs shadows by an open
window
f.
reflection's not the only light that matters
so I've sold myself to a future version of myself
hoping someday my feet might
taste the ground
s.
your shoulder's a church
I can't forgo, an igloo of salvation
melting in the tropical heat
of your defenses
l.
which marathon taught your legs
to cry when the pavement soured
from the very natural losses that
come after so many miles
e.
space is a kind of god, stretching
out forests already named after the fires
that will destroy them, elbowing
out the darkness
c.
cardiac secrets wobble in my chest
like bowling pins, thunderstruck
registering only from the neck up
as I massage the day away
k.
soft sacrifice, my knees have hardened
into olive pits, the temperature of the earth
when it's saddening in place
the removal of bird life
w.
the circumference of my shame
amplifies itself like music nobody wants
to hear, buried waist-deep in mud
I hear everything