there is a curl that flies north after i tuck it south, i looked in the mirror and saw our faces matched symmetrical misery. what did the doctor say about the soft skin on your back and how the lines dismiss erasing. we are carving pictures half wind and sweet louis armstrong waves a battle on the record machine. taking my arm, you move the muscle to discover a symphony of charges running through me to you. what have we found under the capers cloak, another door to explore, another face to capulate. i’m my father trapped in the body of another, with his same mind twisting shapes and breaking all my promises. in the kitchen on the floor, cool linoleum on heated pads of feet. voices carry singular phrases, she’s the walls and ears of furniture. i’m swollen sympathy for the poor man whose eyes i’ve inherited, youth sucked back through the gap in our teeth. dreams cut the paper ruins of our story written on napkin paper, plastered on every side of this room. i found our secret forest grove, back in the autumn night, figured no one look for us there. we were wrong once more. bit your lip so hard it bled and i tasted iron sweets, smoking cigarettes. i wanted you to stay on the bridge that took my home, you took to the middle said you’d have to let me go. watching backs in cadillacs, colored books and bow barrets. cake that makes my mouth stick, i’m birthday come too late.