III

1. your petals uneven from the ground after an earthquake
eyes, lips 
were missplaced and intertwined amongst matted hair parted in 
oil fluid
your jawline blended in with your stem beautifully but
your voice 
sang a song about nothing, which is what we 
were anyway

2. emeralds picked from the ground with no visible roots 
I can 
write a cat song about how you looked in 
the morning
after we threw our stolen chips into the ocean
the arabian 
Sea was parted but not before I left you
a ruby 
fish, but truthfully I'll never see you again anyway

3. I could try and write poetry about you but 
you're beyond 
blank phrases and similes I tongue in Brooklyn twang
hair popped 
like corn, a voice too blasé to be anything 
but a 
liberal art academic cheapened on Wittgenstein never connecting thought 
with emotion
Is easy for the son of the preacher's gospel