love is however many tiny
glasses of vodka we drank
and discarded
sun shards held those hands
of many folds
this little glass-dagger
carves the elegy of hummingbirds,
holds veins in my porous fingers
we sing the wooden desk
in the alley of deep potholes
our branchmouths stripped
of leaves but kindling flame
to scratch the words evenly
scrapes on the whitened palms
the lines intersect always
it is not simple to crumple
those tiny bedroom vodka sheets &
weave them neatly into garbage
(originally published in Loveliest – Issue #1)