we won't be this young in the morning

Somehow it is June and earth has continually proved physical.

I borrowed a week in a city that didn't belong to me and

now I'm sealing its glitter to my teeth.

I laid on poolside cement next to a girl who died with me all our years ago and

now I'm pressing time between my palms.

I asked her what star she was and she laughed.    All of them.

Of course — All of them.

I should have known.

                                      Somehow it is June and I am carving out bones of beautiful nonsense.

                                                                        Think baby shoes, old guitar strings, cherry wood...

                                                                               the way your hand reached for mine in the dark.

                  The way I can't explain any of this to people who have always wanted to be alive.

                                                                                What I'm saying is it's Friday in Los Angeles and

                                                                                              the gas station bathroom has no mirror.

                                                                                                                      I look fine. I knew that once.

What I mean is the ocean licks the sand, quenches the shore &

my heart keeps still, aching quietly.

Thank you for reminding me how to move. 

I will never be in summer eighteen praying to the gods of a makeshift bonfire

under his haloed moon

                                                                                                                                                          again.