she told me i was beautiful
on the
sidewalk, and she
cut her hair in
the bathroom. he happened
to glance and
catch my
purple stardust -
too bad the back
window was open
and my penlines drifted
out in a
cloud of nicotine.

we wrote on pads of lined
paper five
inches wide, and
believed with all our
guilt-smoked hearts
that one day
light would come
save us from the
things we didn't know. the
ice-cream wasn't sour,
so she dipped
her pearls in
my sympathy,
having a hard time
keeping it together.

i could tell the gallows
were mossing over
and our
chance would
be gone soon;
i pulled
them into the
streets -
it was cinco
de mayo -
and walked
into puddles of
widow's graveyard
tears.

we told ourselves
that rain was
love and sun only
burned, but
the taste iron
left under my
tongue couldn't
be ignored. i
quit ballet and focused
on restoring
lawns, hoping
my meteorites would
save dying
children.

2am is the
most cliche time
to write poetry,
so she generally
waited until
four in
the afternoon, driving
the buick up
and down main
street.

his singing reminded
her of his green
gift bag which
reminded him of
their cobalt
eyes which reminded
them of her
stiffened
furniture
which reminded
her of his
singing
and together
we turned
beauty into an
art form.