A Little Something Something

While crossing the Grand Canyon, I find myself wondering:
how many times can you tongue a word
before it begins to unbraid; yields to
splinter into your denim like wicker?

I will never be a whistler, ever-haunted
by some lingering something
a physicality that clings to my clothing, like cigarette air
or goo-sappy needles from blue spruce
on the couch in late January.

This condition is grave–
the chasm between us so mindful of its
own definite shape;

mine is a slow something that spreads
like the pooling of blood on a flat surface, deep and
seeping over time And yours
hungry; deviant as a stream in winter
fleet-full, feverish and darting just
beyond the surface,

barely contained by your own skin.

Tell Me About Yourself

I worry more and more now,
I am forgetting where we hid the buttons

I used to make lists to keep my brain from roving
hungry nomad roving
like buffalo

people keep on talking to hear themselves
selling it to eachother like fables,
a succession of grandiose recitals with a ____ that never comes
I like to stick my favorites everywhere like chewing gum;
my little exercise in feudalism

we become different and I cannot keep,
telling stories like heart rhythms like flash cards
I already know I am bad at geography

I go on like an echo how I am tired of asking for

Making one more request-
forget your face is a map and come to bed.