I’m hiding inside my vestibule of hearts today—
among the lanceflower and sour purslane.
I am a little millipede with antennas like an old school radio
the weeds are wracked and riddled,
all wrapped around me.
I’m taking wild guesses about eternity
but there’s no reception
through all this
all the racket blocked
by branches of the wishkisscolor tree
painted out back near the tired cathedral.
I am trying to forget you. Again.
I am eating flowers!
A silhouette of a past is hanging from a limb of the sorry tree over there—
my vestibule is directly under this jacaranda.
When I roll into a ball like a pillbug,
the forest-angel over my body could live on artichokes and sunshine forever. . .
But all these tiny legs have forgotten how to unremember,
there’s nothing you can tell me about my mouth anymore.
It’s the green sunk into green next to my pulmonary artery—
my world is noise and you still want in like music.