1. The garden that flowers in the interstices of my pocket often whispers

to me in little

little

secrets.

things like we will all be ghost forests one day

or I know what actually grows on your bones.

2. Whenever the sun comes up I tuck my shadow-puppet-hands away like bad feral dogs

into my armpits (in case they bite)

where they will be hained

I sit tight

some secrets: everyone knows: hands do bad things: I’ve forgotten how to clean my room.

instead, I wander loose-like

down your brown-bricked road where the trees like to say

go back, go back, go back

I zip my pockets shut (I’m wearing my mother’s jeans)

she always did tell me I never listen.

3. afterwards, the seedlings on your tongue will start to grow in between my teeth

I peer down the well of my rattling sink pipe

the moon stares back

if I lean over far enough do you think she would

kiss me

even with my mouth full of dirt?