When you are not here.

You should be with us,
feeling like we do.
-perry farrell

We sleep in desperate position,
junkies for cool breezes.

The cats will not come in after dark,
for, presumably, they have found dim recesses,
corners perfect for hiding from day.

Nooks, I imagine, accessible to,
apparently, nocturnal birds,
cicadas, things caught easily,
and three, four times a night;
things to brag about,
in insistent howl,
waking me in practiced transition,
from panic to praise.

I paint, talk to the radio,
cats.

Feathers, from predawn kill,
litter my hair,
the hallway.

We loll, naked, in your absence,
as we do,
when you are here,
only now, in silence,
save for panting,
and, unaudienced sigh.

We strongarm melting hours,
taking slow advantage,
to light wood with color;
that we can hold high,
heads,
when you come home.

Here-we-ares.

The cats, they lay in exasperated recline,
collapse, really, as if see-the-day-through
seems over-the-top.

I know.

But I explain to them, that they are mistaken.
That even this too-much-heat is not-so-bad.

That, we are strong.
That we have been bitten,
by scorpion, by fears-of-fears,
by danger-pits-in-darkness,
that, listen, we are stronger.

Let us stand, with sinew and pump-fist,
let us say, we are the okay-kind.

Okay-kind.

Our own world.

Oh, Wyatt. Right on.

Floor level me.

My ankles, are, I don't know,
so much more sore, than any sore I've ever known,
broken, maybe, in little pressure breaks, like
you dancers and jocks seem so sure about,
so glib in hindsight, like medals, like yeah,
like to brag about, compare about,
like I hate. Like, I've avoided for this reason,
because fuck this. I was skinny and active before
this. So, take your little challenges and carb
whatevers, and put them in a hospital file
with all the other things that hurt, and, if you
can bend, have a seat, let me regale you with,
how now, as I write this, my belly hangs over my
belt, and my ankles wrapped in gauze, and, unrelated,
my haircut is busted, and I screamed at the mirror
today, and broke part of it, and maybe, things, are,
spiraling,
a little bit, out of control.

We roll.

I can feel your beating heart,
little bird,
I'm scared, too.
If I pretend
everything is,
like, cool,
then,
are we cool?