he tells me
of all the numbers
two is his favorite.
unassuming, even
'it's the first number.'

one stands alone.
to wander among the irrationals
and lose itself
among the search for the first.
why do i prefer sixty-seven
and he, two?

would be the last
to fit inside
three-and-a-half
broken stems and dimpled skin
of unwashed fruits

stacked, one by one
a mesh of chartreuse
gleaming apples i cannot count
a soundless sublimation
towards a trembling height
of unseen emptiness and
asphyxiatingly beautiful
bottoms nestled into indentations
of tops and broken stems
fitting so perfectly like
puzzle pieces, convex
and concave do the tips of green
connect and hold fast to each other
with abnormal vectors
and gravitational naivete.
stack connect and climb
up up up
i'm on my toes to
stretch my reach
eyes closed, breathlessly
searching for what i
may be among
the cracks in the wall
rust in my throat
facing palms
and the inevitable tumble
which commences with the
eighteenth.

i tried.

rope-like
warm and encompassing
to bind and liberate within
taut loops and not
understand nor reconcile
the unspoken.
but smiling nonetheless

revealed, i can remove
myself from the colorless
and into the green
clean and generous
you paint me
two times my size

to float amorphously
through the shape
state of turning
welding weaning
myself from the smelting
i cannot resist and
cool inside-out.

playing

the flute, a pan
in the forest running toward
the lake viewing wit
cleverness in the water
wink wink dis
appearance
the melody ceases for
i retrieve what you have
left behind as a
gift of unintentional

arresting

behind eyelids blinding
light proves pink
wet blood swims to
cause sickness of motion
'you look a bit green'
after a mile of
wanting to turn back after the
thistle had been buried
yet soft green -- more
delicious than buttercream --
silences rouged cheeks

i cannot begin nor stop
this stolen song
watching the fall of
our
eighteen.