holding your hand is
the same as giving some
friend a call, as in
i don't. then asking,
has she ever
bloomed in your mouth,
like your last silent night
with a spliff tucked
between your perfect
tiny teeth, holding
the reflection of the dented
hood of a rental car, caked
with every suspicion
that this poem was once
a small/large exchange for a hip, new
tv show. when you are gone,
i secretly read your books
of war, if only
to lie about it in writing,
later. as of this second,
several mouths
are blooming, have
bloomed, and are probably
carrying you.
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