I don’t remember the color of the tiny buds
only the black thick stems, too many stiff

purple leaves, they sprinkle the soft loam,
confetti pieces in the dark, raised waxy palms

hold your head up, all it takes is thirty seconds,
his burnt eyes are folding over themselves, lulls

of laughter, then passed-out in the flowerbeds.
Something I’ve always wanted to do, but never

thought would happen in Chicago. Atrophy. Not
enough moxie to take the plunge. Every bunch of

poppies, the urge to fall into their softness coos.
I can’t do it, can’t trust the sod. In the photos,

napalm looks like diamonds in his teeth. The
napalm, the flowerbed, it’s all very romantic at

the intersection of Halstead, Lincoln, and Tiny
Paper Sculptures, asterisks, six lanes really brighten

the veins, carries scent of softened woods, decaying
bark we need to step over, to go deeper, forgetting

about the height of the mountain we unfurl from,
wearing car brakes down, metal on metal, with us in

the tent, the only protection from the endless beating of
branched Cicadas, they don’t care how damp, humid  it is.


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