A Greeting

Between this moment 

and the next

I've died twice

cried blind

and stoked the stove

with oak. 

Not so much that it's 

cold

but because something has

to burn.

I used to draw 

stick people fucking

and once threw

the fax machine to the wall

and the wall 

dropped it.

The fucking stick people 

never came. 

The burn barrel behind 

the greenhouse 

that covered tender leaved 

gardenias in sleety January 

is where all the examples

of my sin went to burn.

I go shopping for clothes 

because like everyone else

I need a costume too.

And what I drink 

is the style I create. 

Twelve days ago 

I didn't know you

and today

I still don't know 

if you exist. 

Still, stillness, style, burning, blind

and those fucking stick people.

Unlike them, we came. 

And the moon 

is a tarnished sliver 

presses its crescent edge

into the dark cellophane. 

So, tomorrow then?