Sunday, September 10, 2017

The poem you wrote for me in my dream that I woke up and wrote for you

You don’t have blood in your veins.
You have cataclysmic ancient fire
going through you.

And every time your heart pumps
that fire is born again,
like a supernova.

And when the cat brought a mouse in,
I wasn’t sure if you empathized more
with the killer
or the killed.

But it didn’t matter
because you were telling me about
this palm reader you knew,
who takes months to read a palm,
and in the army
he lost his arm
and he had a sculptor carve him a new palm
with a perfect future on it.