there is nothing quite like the tenderness
untested pressures like cool palms pressed against water, to the cheeks’ skin
she wants stories about love, the pretty things, the flower fields and grass in the steam of dawn
practice the motions of beauty. roll toward the sunrise, writhe beneath the blue dawn and the reeds, dance in praise near the altar of the bass drum, the hands like living waves and trading the dust for sweat and rain
the youth is creeping to the woods, feet first into the forests, eyes glazed in the night air and pulsing to the wingbeats of owls, the fear of the forwardness, the small worms in the earth collecting on the feet, eating away the ankles and living int the boar’s ribs,
the dreariness and the nightmares of dust collecting on the mind’s plug,
she wants them to go away, the bodies, the trouble, the cresting notion of self doubt
the armored pill on your lips, pursing between the ridges, living on the tip of the tongue, hiding between the teeth, the bees nesting, burning, fucking, manifesting their dreaded waltzing patterns like a prison forming on the fogged cab windows–locking the doors, telling the driver stories about her father,
there are lies dripping from the gloss of her lips, comfort disguised as superiority, inadequacy beating against her chest.
the streets are calm, the air crushing, youth is crawling up the spine’s rafters and hanging from the chest wall, the stigmata burn of guilt as she closes the door, the owl screeches in the walls, scratching until the blankets are cold
the quiet grows into the ceiling, the remorse slinks into the guts of the building, and tightness leaves the shoulders, refuge from the age returns, and momentarily the child crawls into the dreams— haunting the wilds, like a whisper in the parade.