the last gods
we were joy junkies riding coal waste on old mining roads.
the white birch divining subtle vibrations of earth.
railroad tracks ribboning orange the sinking sun.
what prone light enters unfeathered.
what larva. what salt. what white can unmake.
spine cloud tripe pity.
she was in love with the guy who was in love
with her best friend. he was white-blonde long.
she was white-freckled sweet.
we lived to be night but alive.
no stars shined brighter than our bodies
outlined by licks of fire.
there were two white girls and one black girl walking
the neighborhood of another black girl. the neighborhood
girl tells the new black girl walk in front not in back.
what enters unformed horizons break.
not continuums though you refuse
to imagine an end.
a cloaking theory whitens sky
when i finally arrive
at my inner constitution.
it takes me too long to learn that pretty is a white
myth that ends in death. death is a field
white with trees if we could see them.
they are running with masks.
they are running without masks.
the street is bound in movement.
the sirens become a direction.
the light is white in the background.
the light near-white almost.
the sheet is white over his face.
a white shard seeds me.
i have two knives instead of a heart.
white boils down to rum when it begins as sugar.
the ruins pock the island at the beginning
and end of our romance.
white wears heels looks
over her shoulder.
white knows what she’s done.
i’ve been gone a long time.
each day is a room.
the landscape only water and hills.
if you widen your focus we become a map.
you can’t distinguish your water from my water
your hills from my hills.
when i refuse to love the island
the sea turtles come. they bury their eggs so deep
only a mongoose can find them.
we were going to change the world.
we couldn’t press charges.
he was obviously unarmed.
she does not pull over.
the dead boy is everything for everyone.
everything means captive after all.
clarity is not white.
i write this down and think i’m happy
wanting white to be a lie.
it rains both inside and out. the world is genius
and smoke. i’m sitting here because of nothing
you did. please don’t call me lovely.
if you hunt there is white beyond the canopy of leaves.
if you’re prey there is red within the canopy of trees.
regardless there is light of some dark doing.
a white boy calls a landscape my hip.
he marbles me exotic. he watches the way
i write his name like mine.
beyond something of shadows
a vase with roses holds the skull of a woman
loved by every hand that touched her.
don’t confuse a trumpet flower
for yellow sentiment.
pollination is a thug fight.
what heart thump legions these still stars.
what molten revolt adorns the claw.
what prone light enters unfeathered now.
