This is for the cyclic pressures building inside both of us.
From Boulder to the Czech Republic,
we birth a cross-continental palace we inhabit
with traces of language.
Things don’t leave the internet easily.
This is for the late-night-whiskey times we can’t have right now.
From my pentips to your lips this is the room
we will live in together.
I write, you write, I write, you write,
I write an entry fee of ten lines
This is for three glasses of whisky sloshed on the chalk outlines of countries
that I wish could blur and already are.
I saw you in an iris the other day,
the one you eyed with want and crumpled paper
and I didn’t pick it. So hairline roots might grow
all the way through the center of the earth and
tickle the underneath of a tree that grows despite city
under the concrete. This isn’t true
but it could be.
Let the unfolding be begun already
I see now that you are italicized because of your yawn
Never before bed always just waking up to the way words stretch themselves thin
In your hungry mouth. Our friends show us parts of ourselves we did not know
Expose us to our roots who grow from our petals, inter
Connected as only plants can become.
When it rains my joints ache, they are confused whether or not to
Move according to surrounding water.
What happens when survival surrenders to simplicity?