You have folded your arms
And are looking at me with books for eyes,
As if waiting for a gift.
I have nothing in the way of treasure, surprise, heat or strength.
If a new season begins its press
(The slitted blinds, enemies, plated heat,
The brush of Firefox light in my bed),
And we think about giving it a go,
There would surely be a deep end.
Or an imperceptible chaos of lips, from which
I ought to be afraidI might not have the body to make a return journey.
The mind becomes drowned in returnity.
You must be Autumn,
Since my first two turns on the claw crane
Were analogous to Spring and Summer;
The word, ghost, loses its clean reputation so fast.
Vowels of pink oxygen are holding us by the tongue,
Letting bedtime stories into our ears like cotton.
I want you to tell me things.
I want to own you,
I want an eating.
What I need is forgetfulness - to repress into the future
In my sleep, footstep-crime goes unpunished.
When my head falls away from camera,
You ask what is happening.
I speak up,
Rising with the wirelessness, angel-hoarse:
We were asleep.
But now our heads are heavy with gold and concrete.