You’re the blur of boundary between pot and plant.

You are a madness that moves, too motherish.

Taken down into the basement where the music is,

where the colorful crystals are.

You careful-like lift out containers of take-out,

I scratch myself on purpose by accident.

The TV crackles and smokes and burns the powder.

Someone, but I don’t think it’s me, takes off a jacket.

Their arms are white and confused and infantile.

We stop to sing a song over a sink that is too small,

a bed missing its feet and boots and confidence.

Your hands figure out the world moment by moment.

I like to watch, but I like to be part of whatever too.

You will find me and ask where have I been.

Today, with minimal effort, I experience eyes and dialogue.

Night falls when the light leaves and we careen reckless.

It’s not impossible someone like me could crave speed.

I brag by admitting I care about what you don’t,

the surest way I have of proving something or other.

Never hold back, except when holding back earns you love.

Let’s not go, let’s stay in and play dress-up

until I look like you, until you understand everything.