a timeline is a stem like what’s the inside
part of flower is it pistol is it grave my throat
i want to comb the site of dying with a silver
fork the tile where the memory splays i sell
the house i never owned the tepid drool
can be a fountain for exchange the silver
coin for dream the soil for the cloud whatever
clicks inside the pixelated grid the absent room
smells of copper he is mine he’s underground
he’s in the sky but flowers for a grave? i turn
my cheek the gesture is metallic meaning
tepid sheen the lie of durability my rock
is splintering i must return to gardens
so the gardens grow my soiled face my
poem breaks into the bedroom where she
watches bidders try appraising a projector
from the nineteenth century if she is selling
i am buying if i am buying then the memory
is never obsolete the fountain at the inside
of the image splays and does the drool live
in a cloud so i am always thinking of him
when it rains there is a pixelated timeline
where the tile is the driest place she found
him like a rock inside the house but i will
sell the absent room i am a durable machine
without the copper pistol in my throat the
metal cry the water splinters when i throw
my flower in the fountain like a gardened coin
dying has a sheen but i promise it will fork
i comb my cheek into a bowl of stems i eat