things are weird in my head. not that this is particularly unusual. not ever having anyone else's head, i can't say how weird they are on anything but a personal scale. personally, they're moderately weird. i ate a lot of pickles recently; that might have something to do with it.
it was the best evening ever:
we took our jackets from the stone hinges they hanged from
they bellied like sails as we put them on.
we snuck under formerly sound fences,
snapping our teeth into living necks.
we stared at sour grapes hanging up above our snouts
they were green like temptation and they also made a snap.
we raised white fronts to the moon.
white as the caps of waves. we were never not in motion,
our backs undulant as cherry-skin, downy like silvery peaches,
breathing in air ricocheting direct from grassy plains,
rocks, roots, the bones we left fresh behind.
our feet no longer lead, no longer clay,
our skulls grace-filled beyond comprehension,
because filled with our breath.
the luck of the bone in the drying day is negligible
we prefer the belly of the night, night shroud
night esophagus, night when day is not,
the night bells, the sweet sound
of hayloft words
and former suicides: we were together again.