We’re all just leaves
Waiting to fall

We’re all just guitars
Waiting to be played

It was Monday
when you burned up,
in a swell of
fire and brimstone.

You have Barbie dolls in your basement
with tiny shoes and tiny other things.
How’s her hair ? Sticky?
I always thought she used a little too much product.
Do you love her? Do you touch her?
Is she strapped in a box or out and about
peeking in on you.

I thought I saw
myself
floating above
the bed,

I have never tasted locust-borne starvation,
or been forced to swallow ancient misbeliefs;

I have never run from engine-driven sea waves,
or been thirsty on an island cuffed with reefs.