the present

i dont mean to keep secrets,
telephone calls, whispers,
raincoats and blankets,
thin wrists and im sorry.
we are all each other has left she is saying through grimy
receiver
a borrowed cell phone
a good winter
im so angry, im so angry
we repeat sentences to make emphasis
i say things out loud in my sleep
direct plays and conduct symphonies
all made out of clay
with clay shot hands
tiny figurines line your shelves
blow them down
bullets and lead pipes
such a tease
somehow she hugs me
next to birds of paradise and
the whiskey spills between us
thin rivers to line
the sidewalks and curbs
where friends mope
and mingle in darkness
with feathered hands