You told me you would come see me tomorrow.
The shop had to be closed up.
You were a mechanic and had been one for three years,
Your eyes spin like tarnished coins in an antique shop.
Don’t act like you care about me.
You carve your way to grief-
Grief is in the folding of the flower,
The doorway that is always open.
I take shelter in your eyes.
The eyes that glare and glimmer over me,
Your body is transcendent,
Your eyes are pure as bones.
In this house, there are field mice;
My mother is making banana bread
For my father,
My sister is cruel, waiting for the mail-
The old man walks up the stairs with
Eyes glittering steely behind glass bars.
I am not a criminal.
Your hatred is from flesh,
Derived of flesh-
The bones are aching and tainted.