night has always been horrible to me
snuggling into the walls of my skull
reminding me of things I do not have
whispering: no, he never wanted you

you stand, a man inside a chalk circle
which you drew to preserve your own distance
ice blue, only your fingertips reach out
and even then, I don't dare to touch you

my heart, a trail of affectionate ants
who can not cross the chalk on the concrete
they circle you, and bump up against it
they are ferocious, persistent, in love

you tell them that they're fighting a lost cause
the truth is they have nowhere else to go

two

for twenty years I lived in a motel
is that why you stopped loving me? fuck you
I am a bird carved out of soap, 
remember? I live in a floating tree.

I am a bird carved out of avocado, turning brown at the edges
I will be rotten by the time you decide you want me

you are the man outlined in chalk
there! I found you an identity.

I can create myself as a bird made of fog
I can mist across every circle you care to draw
insinuate myself into the corridors of your brain
between your fingers, in your throat--

and you'll finally say I love you. 
but you won't exactly mean it. 

three

I moved here, to the city made out of fog
and every day another part of me turns into it 
you lean in to kiss me and my face dissolves
my lips float towards the bridge-top, too high,
too late, you remind me of Hamlet

Hold my hand-- I still have a hand--
and cross to the other side with me
step into my triangles, my octagons, my squares
renounce geometry and dance with me.
it's all you can do.  take what you can get. 

a Mexican woman is selling white roses
the color of restarting, of a bird made of soap
you buy one, and hold it out to me, but slowly, slowly
and by the time I touch the stem, it has wilted

four

here is what I dreamed last night:

a line of ants was marching in a circle
around a blue powdered line in the shape of a man
and they turned white, all at once, white ants
and then they began to flatten and grow
until they were rose petals from a wilted rose
then the fog rolled in, white fog, everything was so white
and blew the petals across the chalk, into your hair
onto your lips.  I saw you close your eyes,
you thought you were shrouded, but I saw you kiss
a petal, which floated out of reach of your lips
turned into fog, then turned into a bird
carved out of white avocado, or soap, or flesh
and you closed your eyes, and never saw it fly away
 

five

my body is comprised of 209 birds
they generally keep their wings folded, they're mostly silent
I cough up feathers in the spring, though,
my thighs preen themselves

I must walk on the highest bridge I can see
I must look down, I must consider jumping.
one day I will do it-- one day I will jump

you will watch me from the concrete,
unwilling to step out of the blue chalk circle,
you will watch me jump into the fog

you will watch me disappear, you will never see
me again.  and you will never see the wings

breaking my skin, 418 wings, which beat
as if they've flown before, and carry me away

six

you aren't inside a circle, but a spiral
this makes more sense. first: it keeps getting
smaller. second: it has a beginning and an end.

you want to ask me how I know this.  how do I know?
I hide inside your corridors, your throat, your hands.
I know it all, my love.  I know more than you do.
your spiral keeps getting smaller-- what about claustrophobia?

you think I am after you? I will not run in circles.
I will wait.  I can wait.  you may be a professional, but I
recently took it up as a hobby, deliberating it all:
blue chalk circles and ants who never give up
but they found the opening, they circle closer
and in the meantime you wonder where the rest of me went.

I landed on top of a church in Florence.

seven

I land on top of a church in Florence
and decide to explore the catacombs
which keep getting smaller-- what about claustrophobia?
the bones of the monks have nothing to give me

I am white, I am clean, but I am not reborn
that's just a fairy tale, not my new life
my new life is to re-form as my bones fold their wings
to buy a gelato and drink clear red wine.

I will be back, I was always willing
to bear the full weight of our love on my back.
that was before I had wings, roses, fog, all the whitenesses--
that was before I lived in Florence, a tree, a motel.

this was when everything was simply arranged--
when I loved you.  when you wouldn't love me.

eight

I know you don't care much for travel
so what do you do?  draw circles, deliberate, wait.
well I am in Italy, trying to convince them
to exchange a handful of white feathers for lire
at the post office, so I can send you a bottle of wine

if you tried, this would enable you to understand me
but the bridge doesn't care to understand the fog
it is satisfied to ignore it, cut through it, rise above it.
I am a bird carved out of soap.  I am a bird.

I'm surprised you like circles. you are so linear
I have always believed in dissipation.

I jumped without saying, thank you for the flower

I hope this bottle of wine finds you.
I hope this postcard finds you well. 

have you been getting my postcards?
do you believe they are from me?
after all, you watched me plummet to my death.

what would you do if I sat cross legged
in a blue chalk circle, and waited for you there?

now we've both had a sip of regret
the clear red "too late" that I sent you from Italy
made of the finest, most bitter, clear grapes. 

then again, our love has always been decadent
too rich, too much to sustain itself for long

and the avocado bird has never really left
and the fog still lives, coating your lips

I'm not in Florence, I'm sitting cross legged
in a blue chalk circle, waiting for you there

ten

It took 2 artists 3 years to carve this bird of soap
it took 1 girl 1 year to jump off a bridge
it took 1 man 27 years to draw a shape with chalk

you reject me, my labels, my bird-- on general principle
you don't even believe in immortality of the soul
yet you wait as if you believed in it, always,
as if the bird made of avocado will never turn brown.

I am obliged to tell you I love you.
whatever is inside me, from words to white birds,
is bound to force itself out eventually

you might understand this, although you're not big
on inevitability.  you are a concrete bridge, a
blue bridge, a spiral bridge, carved out of chalk.

look! I have found you an identity.

 
eleven

red wine.  green bird, brown at the edges.  blue chalk.
white fog.  white roses.  209 white birds.
I am getting tired of color.  I am going color blind.

I walk, one foot in front of another, across a high bridge.
I fly, one wing, 418 wings, to buy one bottle of wine.
I killed myself for you, but I am not really dead.
You might decide to kill yourself, but you'd die
of old age by the time you decided the particulars.

The higher I climb, the louder I can scream I love you.
your ears are plugged with cotton fog puffs.
soap dissolves in the fog.  most things rot quickly.

the only way to escape is to travel in spirals.
inward and inward until you're too small to survive.