after

when I get home, I pour wax into my embossed limbs
impressed with the contours of your solidity
I will make a stencil of you.

don't tilt your head at my absurdity
and don't tattoo your brow with lines.
I know it will be an impostor's arms
wrapped about my birdcage ribs
but at least I can make believe
with your voice distended
across too many miles for authenticity.

as I bastardize someone
I will never really taste, no matter
how comatose we become in each other's
fireside kisses,
the verisimilitude of
us
decays.

we may have slept away the storm, but
clouds have no time for silly things
like dreams or Aphrodite
so that tree in the park died on its side,
roots in the air like splayed fingers.

its body as hollow
as this t o g e t h e r.