Tell me about the dream where we wake in between notebook
pages you and I, the two kinds of decay,
synchronous with a deserving narrative.
It begins with you kneeling over the creek behind my childhood
home flicking water with your middle finger
reassuring me that it was alright to go back,
and to say things reminiscent of regret
like,
“His spirit told me to keep it a secret,” and that “Her body
told a short
short
story.”
In the backyard by the unhinged screen door you kissed me
and squeezed my fatty triceps
and said, “I think I’ll stay the night, for you.”
I said, “I thought that would be alright,” and that
I’d make up the sofa.
I had been living alone so long that
later I pissed with the door open
and you walked through the hallway to the kitchen
nearly spattering your original Yoplait
all over the picture of my mother standing
behind my father resting
her hands nervously sweet
over his cocked shoulders.
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