Last November

The entropy of new dreams released the risk of the lowest hopes

after our first kiss I became the ghost of a thousand laughs while

the hummingbird beat its wing a thousand times and the geese flew home

I saw none of this, I was dead before the first phone call

in every language home means the same thing living and dying in your arms tonight

but the sun’s furnace broke and its light bent away from us

there was no finding my way back to you no way to live in the chaos of your

eyes, or to feel the warmth of your skin you left me dead and buried on that

warm November afternoon don’t you remember