“sorry, I’m so sorry, but do you mind if I put the milk away?”

maybe
I like to muse, there’s
a polished reserve of
serrated kitchen knives
slotted neatly inside
the leg of your pink jeans
 
maybe
you have an anecdote so criminal
that everyone at the party
has to laugh forcefully
into their beers
hiding their secret terror
at your misdoings
 
but for now, the people sigh again
at your nervous giggles and
your paranoia at offending them
 
I think
if pushed a notch too hard
you would dissolve into an
all-American puddle
 

Night Folds

only the sticky night tonight
waits for someone up before dawn
straining eyes
she pours milk in the dark
the stars blink above
so she looks with open palms
now that the glass has been finished
the piano lies dormant
deep, deep in the black
inside her bedroom
her hands fold
over a perfect leaf

Moontide



with straining eyes,
she holds a simple glass
milk poured from the grey dark
walks outside to the blue dark

with burning ears,
she breathes in the pinpricks
they fade in blinks
everything still, a silhouette

with white skin,
she passes two hours by
sipped, swigged, taken
the glass is empty

with naked feet,
she sees a sky blushing itself awake
one hundred metres from
a better smudged yesterday