Leather oak leaves floating on dark water.
Tree roots curling into wet simple earth.
Fingers tangled.
My hair. (I’ve never been good at construction,
         these wings are lopsided,
         feathers made of smoke,
         cat fur, scraps of paper
         but the joints seem strong, the bones are hollow
         as ducks.)
Trumpets brazen as beats blasted down beaten tracks
     or soft as your lips against my neck
     talking for hours about 808s and sin waves,
    bell tones and phase, the politics of purple couches.
Orion’s Belt on a clear night when my lungs
     seize on freezing air or on smoke or because
     your eyes are the same color as mine.
A crumpled water bottle in my trash. (Please don’t judge
      if I add more letters to my words or
      if I start gulping water like I’m drowning.
      Icarus never knew
      flight like this, so blinded by flaring
      magnesium eyes,
      falling up to the sun.)
I can feel you like a cup of hot cofee
      at 3 AM.      
Fingers tangled across my thighs. (Daedalus didn’t know that the
     flight would end silently, didn’t know the
     wax would burn rivers of truth on
     his soaring sun, didn’t
     know the feathers would rain down
     for days afterward.)
A riotous tangled mess of quilted flowers shoved between my bed and wall.
The city stretched out like sky, if the stars were really orange
     fires that move against
     my body like drunk fireflies instead
     of distant cold things that bite.
A stack of seven disks
A film of chocolate on my lower lip.
Fingers tangled across my thighs while our voices
    rustle like paws on a hardwood floor.