Breadcrumb #69



The skies cannot blur
even when you squint

& remember too many trees
in your parent’s backyard, once

a breath away & I have stopped

& there is no gelatinous
sunset to bring me back & raise

my bones to a place where I'm
found except humming on the tip

of your tongue as you sleep
hearing sounds of stinging where

flesh on flesh swirls into shells
tilting milky necks.


In a shaft of moonlight, a voice
your voice

wedges beneath rusted garden
tools hidden in the basement

& there is nothing in my mouth
except for absence of fingers—

a lake night-filled with your body
playing a concert for Mickey Mantle

& the ghost of a girl on victrola
who says she found you, a red

orchid, growing out of a sea-foam
green Chevy unguarded & silent

as clouds drifting together in
the shape of a ribcage, no blood

& the sunlight shifts & breath begins
in unison.

• • •