the air does not hold memory or voice

it is hard to tell where my hands are
the cloud coverage hides shadow.

i have accidental dreams of fish, murder
and native americans. photography bores me,

literature bores me, vanished kidnapping victims bore me.
i have been to the same parlors you frequent, i know

that while i was dreaming you were gathering mushrooms
to poison my soup. you are getting close to me

so that murder can ensue.
the air does not look like you at all.

i have to stop looking at the trees though, they are expressive like
your face. you do not need to raise your eyebrows

so much. i get it. i get it.
things i know, i repeat

the hot air balloon: neutral, wiped of memories does not remind

nothing satisfies the empty space

cleopatra gazelle brought a horse on the balloon
and the candy striper didn’t even bring medicine for my vertigo
the passengers are useless
i would climb down if my hair were longer
or if my anxiety could form a vine
anxiety is useless because it stays on the inside

watching a candy striper and a frame cleaner make out
is not that interesting. i am bored again
i would like to swallow a large piece of the atmosphere
and charm the horse while wrapping him in shroud
all the horses followed me home and slept
with me under silk sheets for years

it is dumb to put your lips on someone’s lips; heat
comes from fire and not some unknowable source like
‘love’ or ‘nuclear power.’ sometimes he took pictures
of native americans and jousting weapons and
sometimes i confuse his face for pedro’s face
but his face was not pedro’s face and it was not clear

like my face and it did not glimmer like a silver dollar
and there is not enough room for a swollen heart,
a frame cleaner, a candy striper and a horse.
forty-seven people i’ve touched have died
i am not sorry. i regret the pollution but not everything:
i had a brief affair with mark rothko