i’m here in the heart of the city.
in the heart of pretenses.
calling you through this concrete window:
you just stepped out of the bath,
out of breath from the heat and the
stretching and the thoughts of wanting me
to see you even in the midst of your mess.
we’re both here. on this non-fiction line.
on this day of one lost hour. on this day
of the dead; of our continued living in
electricity and love and power and dread.
right before i stood up and
nailed it, all of it, right to the
tree and then sunk down on my knees
to worship her sanctity—
i sang you the words of my grandmother’s
story, and you told me of your father’s
eulogy, and our hearts pounded together
over the invisibly real sound waves.