the last gods

 

we were joy junkies riding coal waste on old mining roads.

the white birch divining subtle vibrations of earth.

railroad tracks ribboning orange the sinking sun.

what prone light enters unfeathered.

what larva. what salt. what white can unmake.

spine cloud tripe pity.

she was in love with the guy who was in love

with her best friend. he was white-blonde long.

she was white-freckled sweet.

we lived to be night     but alive.

no stars shined brighter than our bodies

outlined by licks of fire.

there were two white girls and one black girl walking

the neighborhood of another black girl. the neighborhood

girl tells the new black girl      walk in  front      not in back.

what enters unformed horizons break.

not continuums      though you refuse

to imagine an end.

a cloaking theory whitens sky

when i finally arrive

at my inner constitution.

it takes me too long to learn that pretty is a white

myth that ends in death. death is a field

white with trees if we could see them.

they are running with masks.

they are running without masks.

the street is bound in movement.

the sirens become a direction.

the light is white in the background.

the light near-white almost.

the sheet is white over his face.

a white shard seeds me.

i have two knives instead of a heart.

white boils down to rum when it begins as sugar.

the ruins pock the island at the beginning

and end of our romance.

white wears heels      looks

over her shoulder.

white knows what she’s done.

i’ve been gone a long time.

each day is a room.

the landscape only water and hills.

if you widen your focus we become a map.

you can’t distinguish your water from my water

your hills from my hills.

when i refuse to love the island

the sea turtles come. they bury their eggs so deep

only a mongoose can find them.

we were going to change the world.

we couldn’t press charges.

he was obviously unarmed.

she does not pull over.

the dead boy is everything for everyone.

everything means captive        after all.

clarity is not white.

i write this down and think i’m happy

wanting white to be a lie.

it rains both inside and out. the world is genius

and smoke. i’m sitting here because of nothing

you did. please don’t call me lovely.

if you hunt      there is white beyond the canopy of leaves.

if you’re prey      there is red within the canopy of trees.

regardless      there is light of some dark doing.

a white boy calls a landscape my hip.

he marbles me exotic. he watches the way

i write his name like mine.

beyond something of shadows

a vase with roses holds the skull of a woman

loved by every hand that touched her.

don’t confuse a trumpet flower

for yellow sentiment.

pollination is a thug fight.

what heart thump legions these still stars.

what molten revolt adorns the claw.

what prone light enters unfeathered now.