poem

I was kissing saturday's eyes with smoke and you materialized,
ready to be wished or dropped. I fought so hard to keep you
alive, hoped that 'the best' would happen while I drove my fist
like a stake into your spirit. I was worried you'd be warped
by the fog of voices that surrounded your clothes and ass
and page numbers, arrows pointing toward a crown of light.
A pack of cigarettes sat on the table like geometrical plans
for a building, shaping light, maybe a vagina-shaped galaxy
or a tree with roots in central asia blossoming in the empire
state building on certain days of the year.