I know one thing for sure:
I am not having any fun.

I do not know who to call
when 5 AM thunderstorms.

I do not know how arms became
children of themselves      aching

to grasp. My friends are all out
drinking now and I am begging

a stone       to leave or burst
into photographs. The present

is just an unripe past and we
throw our hands for sugar.

Nobody told me. That love
is the dead stars still heaving

the sky on, is daisies pressed
between the words: the crushed

flower skeletons decorating
a note on the fridge.

She will tell you that teeth
will turn to crumbs in the sun

and chatter in the snow and
stones will always carry a knife

so never abandon your thirst
for staying alive. The echo

and all your tender lovers
will forget. There is no meal

on the other side of staying
strong.       Only a glint

in the hunter’s eye
before he mouths your name.