I dreamt the boy back into
being the high school digressive
and indistinguishable mark I
cackled under his window my hot friend
princessed for a pill. I ever yes
and yearned. The year split. Was his
kiss glue I hid in bags to gasp? He put me
on a list to board and rock. He’s stupid. Irrelevant
mouth name. Probably laughs if anything probably
never thinks me to thick. Imagine a hip
stopping imagining. I dreamt chance
open, dreamt leather weather, being known.

I go back to the house on Magazine
Street and the actress is still there and we
air kiss—cloud, cloud—on the steep narrow
stair. I go to the door and there is no
door just open space and my cat
longer and not blind sitting
on the hard wood satisfied, I think,
but not touched, and I touch her
soft long—I miss—why have I
left—her—in the warm—forever—
and floodless hour. This is a story
in which the arrows are scars.