999 Z83

I’m sending her a letter
on some bruised palms

I’m writing you listening to
Songs of Leonard Cohen
and I don’t know
which stupid hand
is reaching out

I’m sending you a letter
but you don’t have to read it
it won’t make me feel
any worse or better

you call me a stranded bird
afraid to fly off my perch
I’ll eat my weight in pine nuts
and scratch my back
for a little while
honey

you want my name like I want
some strange tower
to crumble across my bed
revealing ants walking
crooked and sad

I’m playing guitar
by the pool
with rags and a bandana
wrapped around my body
the sun feels like a heavy bath
and I sleep
and I wipe my sweat away
with fresh cut grass