Why are you looking at this frightening picture of me with henna in my hair? Oh, I have my reasons. Do you wanna hear ‘em?
It is a deference you make,
a concordance you set
between you, and your gravity.
No one watches correctly— the conjurer makes sure
all paying eyes stray to the glint of his large amber ring—
blooming in my head this morning while the jackhammers
kick the asphalt six feet below the windows next to my bed.
Today is like a rare curiosity behind a glass case
in the old dusty hobby shop that never looks open—
Consider the animal nature
of your breath—
Human nature is only nature, after all.
And some days, but not others, I am walking through the drying linens tucked away from the street in Mrs. Kormos’ backyard,
There’s a bluebird in my heart that —