is not a place, although you hang flowers from my shoulders. Upside down they'll last longer, pollinate crevices in the grass to mark where I once was.

Memorialize me, paperboy, who crossed too quickly, now slicked on a silver pole, your face almost lost in a tattered sheet.

You too are covered in flowers.

Someday we'll plant ourselves, bury our feet in deeply to whatever soil will take us. Your vice
will be simplicity, mine will be touching the sides of your face.

There are things I should do first- measure the inches between my forehead and Philadelphia, seed a pomegranate front to back, count the scars on your body that are like my body-

And if none of them match, we can paint a scar, chin to chest, a solid pulpy line
like the street you couldn’t cross, and if we don’t paint it, maybe you can imagine

the line, still wet, and press yourself against me, and we can both imagine
a knife that left us warm and draining blood.