WHY BIRDS COLLIDE WITH AIRPLANES

The sallow glimmer of streetlights
encroaches upon thick sky
as stars get lost in urban glow.
Voices muffled by broad doors and sheetrock,
squealing fan belts traveling at a constant finite speed,
You prop yourself up, shoulder freckles
aligned like some lesser known constellation,
overlooked, but nonetheless beauteous.

Your rubber words bounce off walls
and ricochet off the pine floors,
the shrapnel from your lexicon
crashing into my sternum with the
force of Adam West era Batman onomatopoeia:
Thwack! Pa-Pow!

Words born out of wedlock once read so severe
back when revenge was a sound
and love was a taste
that didn’t lose its flavor so quickly.

I study the sacred geometry of your external shell;
the topography of moles, surface scars,
where the meteor landed.
Shoulder blades to protect your blindside.
Ribcage prison for bagpipe lungs.
Rogue heart incarcerated.

Long after you fall asleep, I tell you,
the howls of theta waves reverberating through the air ducts,
I inhale your dreams.
They smell like gasoline.

They fuel my human vehicle.

I talk in circles and create a ring of words
with which I promise to love you to pieces
so tiny and jagged, the razor-sharp slivers
cut the heels of suitors and attack the forefoot
at the faintest scent of lust.

Your elbow unlocked, shoulder remiss,
“We’re in it for the long haul,” you say,
tonguing a ring of your own,
packaged in a saliva box.
We have no use for diamonds.
Not where we are going.