Just as my doorbell rang all of my windows blew inward.
Shards of glass flew slo-mo as they transformed into birds.
One flew into my eye and began writing this letter to the President.
But the President was a florid afterbirth that only happens in Heaven.

From the burning edge of life and death, her name is destroying the sky.
I am a kind of secret sandwich whose ingredients will save the world.
Here, these marbles are mothers, shake them a few times to the music,
and they will blow the bubbles that become your head.

If only they would return my refrigerator, all my friends would be dead.
And we would go diving out of silence, into the great forever of kissing.
If only the windows were not so like her absences, hypnotic and fragrant.
All their fragments are burning secrets, pinning me like a butterfly,
lifting my blood to the moon.