I’ve swallowed a bowl

of air.

I’m washing my insides

with music.

I do this just for you:


with the mellow slap

of your feet.


I’m coaching

the tight-lipped flowers,

bellowing under

your window

a jukebox

of desperation

made entirely

of noise.


O, O lovely one,


I’m terrestrial now.

I’ve perfected

a thousand

swollen imitations

of the ripe and ever-

loving moon.