Four Corners

They hide in dark spots, waiting to spit if I stop.
Sometimes I see their greasy boxes with clothes
draped over like shrines to the fallen. I recognize
the grainy cough and cover, sinking so far I need
a priest, even though I’ve never been catholic.

Father can’t help me if I don’t stop running
downtown at midnight, sharing the same streets
he tries to clean through prayers. If they catch me,
on the corner, they can have me, I say as cocky
as the stacked building I’m passing. I spit,

choking on night air, hollow and dry enough
to give me nose bleeds every winter but, still,
I continue to a place that’s even darker, more
unsafe. Then I close my eyes and circle,
until I’m too tired to know what I’ve done.

Apple Heart

If I could, I’d split, half-eaten,
like an apple heart,
instead, I have worms, eating everything
I need for her to understand.

The seeds are words, choking me
when mother says, Don’t come
to my funeral. It’s what you do
before. I can’t swallow her

death, barely, when she’s too
cold for life. The bite is more
than I can make excuses for
without sounding like a pushover.

Wormhole

When I heard the word, I didn’t know meaning
but made my own and inched into age.
Everything was the same except location.
I sat still, head slightly bowed, like just woken,
perspective, neither happy or sad.

Twelve minutes, twelve days, twelve years,
I couldn’t tell as the mirror held my face,
red from sea mist. I sustained, then
slowed breaths to forty beats away
from another ocean not so far away.