harvest

weekends of pleasant distraction and distant dissent

explaining my religion to the son of a preacher man

through telephone wires, but he already has his sorries

lifted from a proud chest and picks pennies from my eyes

a harvest of bright and bounty. he whispered in my electronic ear

i followed your small words for a month, the month after i left

and i wonder, how many months are left in you?

your tabs that my phone thinks i like to see

feed me reiterations of feeds i’m reading

please tell me it’s because you feel nothing and want something

tell me your heart sings while it is throwing up in an enflamed elevator

tell my you’re wrong and not sorry but you’re ready - i’ll tell you i spent my time waiting

by dancing in the autumn leaves, my petticoat, perfect flower blooming at the tops of stairways

and they are strong enough to carry me flights and fights, to leap, lovely, open the tops of skylines

spindles tickling toes, but what ten tender tendrils want is to splay, displayed and perfect

on your sheepish skins.