You are like a merciless dust storm raising above the clarity of my mind.

It’s 11 am and I’m sitting in a restaurant
3 beers in. Believe me, even I’m surprised
I’m still alive sometimes.
I have been drinking about you for 2 days.
Lately you remind me of a wild thing
chewing through its foot. But you
are already free and I don’t know what to do
except trace the rough line of your jaw
and try not to place blame.
Here is the truth: It is hard to be in love
with someone who is in love someone else.
I don’t know how to turn that into poetry.

Sometimes the ocean grows as tall
as a skyscraper, a leaning tower of whitewater
I can’t run away from
so I let its cold muscle
smash against the earth
and my body, smash
its atoms into a billion
decibels of sand.

The sun hovers over the damage
like a swarm of yellow jackets
buzzing robot sex in my dream.

There are blueprints for houses I’ve never slept in
where my family tree weeps
in the living room
and the door frames a darkness
only my shadow fully knows.

I know there are pictures painted in blood
behind my eyes where Picasso reaches
through the black for a scalpel.

Last night I drilled for oil in your pupils.
Your legs were a surgical mask
wrapped around my lips, your body
was in full bloom with bruises
and I woke up with you
missing.