Ode and Declaration
I swish the trashcan free-throw, think about
what happens when only the core remains —
when irony blossoms into full-out
sincerity. How we share our stories like scars. These old pains.
This is what’s left when the bomb explodes
she said, patting my head. Now, my heart? A haunted
house. Lillium Stargazer, Bill Evans, the vaunted
pianist — I recite my favorite things. Being snowed-in.
Or that the blues in Spanish is jazz
de melancolia. Living a world
you wanted to live in as best as or as much as
I can. “So far, so bad” you would laugh, curling
your hair before bed, saying prayers at night
to root against me while I tried to be traveling light.
Dropped Calls 