I'm going to die on the road, walking away
from a war my parents started with everything.
There will be a bird in my hand, I will cross
a ray of light and it will come to life. The pebbles will dance
like severed clitorises going back to their bodies.
Desperate to love each other
terrified to love each other
the sands will escape through my lips
and a gut will fill with human things.
The narrative pulled through my navel
will unwind and come back forever.
I'll paint horses with neon
in a dim field outside your bedroom.
We'll have a narrative here in the grass,
a basso profundo voice will munch away
on its cud. And the bird will peck a hole through my hand.