In my dreams I beg forgiveness as if I am in the wrong
And in dreams I drink down pilfered honey and I steal my lover’s song
The days ring hollow in my dreams and all the nights are long 

A list of things that make a home:
A freezer bag of chicken bones
Or lunch on Sundays unalone

You slide your head against the boy’s shoulder
On the MRT and he slides his hand over 
The back of your neck. The train cleaves the air.
The noise of it muffles the voice of the woman

[Come on over][MRT] I say we can listen to records I can put on some tea we can read books we can listen to the sound of you breathing we can twine our legs together on the sofa I keep meaning to reupholster I mean get reupholstered

There’s a version of the story where you did it all right. 
You went home alone
You went home unalone 
You feared the right things, said the right words,

I have a running list of postcards to send. 
The heat has stolen all the fiction out from me. 
It’s replaced it with compulsive inanity,
The urge to spill hollow words on the backs of photographs 

IN WHICH I DO.

Your smile. Your quiet apology.

The leaves on the trees. You say,

Tell me about the man. I say,

IN WHICH I DON’T SAVE YOU

Your smile. Your quiet apology.

Your warm voice and hands and the leaves still red on the trees.

You planting the grain. You in the garden. You with the milk. 

CIRRUS 

It was a vicious summer.

We were screeching and tarsticky children under the [high riotous sky][IN WHICH I DON'T SAVE YOU] and it was a skinned knee vicious summer. 

THIS IS THE STORY YOURE TELLING YOURSELF

I do not know what you are.
I know the morning glory. But you -