line 2 subway home

I never anticipated your gloves on my toilet, in the bathroom where I pluck the hairs from my nose. Oh! Sink me into March with your backwards time and hair like dry leaves on the pavement this morning. Touch me with the outward lines in your fingerprint, and let no atoms separate your body from mine. Let me sunbathe on the roof, let me make do with the hoof which presses into my back each time you say those things to me. She had black hair and brown eyes, but she’d never seen the things I’d seen like you have. She stayed inside, showed up late, while you’re up when the cuckoo crows. She’d slip outside of herself, sleep for days, fold and bend, friends and food and hair around my room. Under the radiator when you fall to the moon, drowning in the pressure of a rainforest crowd under the glaciers of Versailles and the drawing room of mine. You’re the machine that stays working fifteen seconds after it’s unplugged, the naked sheep sheared on my lawn at dusk, the tracks that sway beneath the ocean, the spring in my mattress that pokes me in the dorsal cavity, the flat, straight line that sings through my head when I’m angry. I’ll never see the light at the end of the tunnel when it runs in sixteen lines, labyrinths and mineshafts and brain tumors in a skyscraper of hay.