constellatinghis soul is a nomad and it never staysbut it stayed long enoughto count ambulance lightsas wishing stars,while we count bruises as battle scarsand heartaches as entire worldsending./his soul was a settler, once,staying only for thevoices of doctors that smoothedout the wrinklesin the inevitable,but he had to go.now he wades in and outof waters rolling like the tidal archsof ferris wheels. you can hear himin the final trill of beethoven's last opus,find him waxing and waningon moons we cannot hold in our hands.no one can touch daytimebut he bends sunrays likesoftened metal. he is there:the energy inside a paintbrush,the potential and actual.he is the cinematic and the too real,the quantum and indefinite.he is machine guns and flowers,opium and starlight. he does notmourn the yearsthat were ripped awaybecause he is still here; he isstillhere./his soul is a nomad and it never staysin one place, cyclingth
ode to you, if you ever goall i want to do in math classis write poems about my dogand how we buried her in the yardthat one winterwhen you weren't there to seeand there was blood on my handsbut i was still clean, when the rattlingof her bus-crushed bones in a wheelbarrowbecame the thud of her frozen name falling out of my mouth.grieving her turns into grieving you,trauma snowballing in the wake of spring(my crying is about you even when it's not)i know you are gone now,burying other madnessesin another backyard, while i hang myselfon the trees in mine and think about howmy dad could've saved my dogif he would've fixedthe fucking electric fencelike he promised a thousand times;i promise a thousand timesthat i was still clean, that winter when you leftbefore the dog died and you weren't there to tell methat we're all gonna die anyway. i needed to hear it then;i was becoming unclean,needing to be tethered to something's gravity, i hada mind made up of the way my dog's eyes look when she'