for M.L.

When the acres go away they will forget their farmers. They will lean, woven with soil, into damp patches of morning, quilting a settlement of gift-swollen seeds.

When you go away I hope I will inherit your rake which dreams of asparagus. You might, by then, be an overflowing, a soup stain on a tablecloth.

You might be burrowed, lettuce-like, into the fields of so many nights.

You might be sulfur-broken wings wrinkled against the horizon while I navigate a bitter maze of patient hands, raking a patchwork of dirt.

by Thomas P. Levy

Original soundtrack by Failboat – Download the MP3

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Enough of the desktop. It’s not important.
There are other colonies. Fruit flies and crabgrass.
You have your own cupboards, your own letter opener.
I think this isn’t a promise. Should I apologize?
I’m like you, the folders, the book-ruined desk.
I should have worn a suit.
You are a not a chest of toys. I’ve learned these things.
You don’t have handles.
How can I get you into the car?
I didn’t know your breasts were made of moths,
but if I had I would have wanted to see them anyway.
You asked me to write your mother but your hair was like a knot
of yarn. The desk was full of bottle caps.
I wanted to tell your mother that she was like a blighted tree,
but I could only talk about autumn. Leaves
like an unkempt face, bags of them by the curb.
She didn’t understand—
I wanted to want you more thoroughly, like a broom swept floor,
a lamp, moths crashing around.
There’s no mice left on the ceiling. I cleaned
the desk, threw the onions away,
stepped over the rug as if it were razor wire.
Did I cover your eyes?
I meant to bear a perfect globe, a chisel
of fluorescent light. I didn’t mean to make you blind.

by Thomas P. Levy

Original soundtrack by Failboat – Download the MP3

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