she drove through ghosts to get here

i.

i built an opera house on bones and salt,
in a jungle, deep in no man's land

for you;
beasts flood the seats in droves.
the air turns thick and heavy, icy.

my shadow points at the stars - orbs
robbing orbs--feverish hiccups in spades

as i wait.

*

i'm centerstage - face in red velvet,

running from a shark in the sand,
a stick of dynamite in my hand
for when i sing the perish song.

my eyes shut, braincase in disarray -
the curtains close and gel illuminates
the frailty of stillborn fog -

a frail frame.

*

fifty-eight runs go well.
all the jungle cats and fire ants
mingle in the lobby, agreeing that
the man on the moon died too soon,
and that it sucks he couldn't tell her
she's the pot of gold--found only
at rainbow's end.


ii.

tonight you finally show. i
find myself immobilized.

you in an all-black romper,
standing on the balcony,
holding an umbrella -

a silent gaze commanding me to kneel,

to yield to gravity and
pull apart in smiling slivers.

*

you burrow beneath my skin.

i abandon phantoms and
quarantine the opera house.

the beasts go home, and
i take a step beneath your parasol.