Fault Line

For Jillian

Don’t, she says.
I know when I’ve fallen in love.
People move into their names.

Just stay here.

I start writing love songs all the time,
“Ok goodnight”
sounds American.

Like the place “us”
was born in.

The Telegraph avenue part of me is always
wondering.
The edge of that awning, above the
smoke shop,

transitions into a flock of crows.
Everything gets small and far
eventually.

Seriously, stay.

Let modernity go. Watch
the pathogenesis of our collective groupmind.
I love the small pieces that fall off
that we find later.

At the top of Grizzly Peak, the girl’s coat.

A handful of rain held out for him to try,
to negate, deny,
or squander.

It means I start stealing more,
like a child.

Like knowing my absence
and liking its outside.

Ours are the clouds splayed across the sky
suggesting deep breath.
Reckless range of song or
anything that moves.
All my nouns, go.

The place is that place
where they say you can find yourself.

A road to the empty center
of a rose.
The portrait of a common hand.
You’ve heard this already but

When he uses the device he can
hear his heart contracting.
Look, we can move to Russia.
What if I made you taste this as blue?

I’ll start over
as an older man

who met you at the right time this time,
knows all about the small
delays between breaths and
can let you touch them.