Everything is alight

A girl walks by with leopard-
print leggings and a guy aims
a camera at his friend
washing windows six stories up

His name-tag says Move in cursive
or Marco
It is spring
Will I have a comb over or go
bald into old age
Oh

I forgot
about all my friends
all my friends
I miss everywhere all the time

I see pink confetti-
looking throw-up in the thawing snow-bank

Is the plural of iris still
iris or irises

A bird to another bird successively and many thereafter in those mountains you were
entering when you sent the text after our dropped call that said, “I’m heading into the
mountains. I keep losing you.” That call came many years after another but the first was still
floating around the air somewhere, which began by rolling down a hill at the golf course
covered in snow and a cracking sound that rang within and without my clavicle that told me
to call out for help. The call for help met no one, which got made and repeated to my dad,
who answered, but got muted from the siren song as I drove myself to the hospital clutching
myself the whole while clutching the car. Which brings us back to now, to last night where,
when I checked my phone after midnight, I had 6 missed calls and 2 texts unseen from you,
which signaled a response, which signaled both relief yet not a slack in the line and anger all
the same over not calling, yet calling to wake you up, the call you dropped after only 28
seconds of responding.

We don’t remember our anniversary so have an anniversary month, which is in a matter of
days, days totaling 30 regardless of the leaps. I’m hugging you hugging the curb as I feel my
way around our rented car to inspect for mistakes, any errors in our contract with which to
reconcile ourselves. It is black and shiny, which reflects off the Spanish night that we
squeeze through, worrying about speed limits and conversion rates, whatever numbers
mean. Being as old as beings feel, I go forwards and you go backwards connecting the 8 in
80 to the infinity sign, static to static on the radio. We sing, we sang, we have sung. We’re in
the middle of the road now, which I drive off of and into the ocean we go amphibious with
croaking and oil. We sing, we are slung asunder. We get drained and drain it, finally.

The difference between
loneliness solitude

lake river

then there’s the deep dark
gulf

I’ve always said

if my family weren’t my family

I’d probably hate them

a passing truck full of hicks hauling
a pontoon boat, a spittoon tucked snug
between the legs

Hard to say though

stranded as I am

in the middle of
it all

in a kid’s life-
jacket

Someone said marooned

and all I can think of

is the color

I possess many things
you could say

I am possessed
by many things

and that is why
I write

to work my way
out of things

too vague too vague

a suited banker came
and took

away our house
away our truck

and called it re-
possession, the turning

of our wheels
onto Church St.

and beyond our hands
which I guess

is a form of freedom

a house w/out
any frame

of mind w/out
concrete

suppositions

a window into
and out of

everything goes