the honey locusts are bare. it’s the weather, cast down 
like a flattened neck vein, a mouth full of seeds.

i was told i could not people-please my way into healing.

consider this half-decaf coffee: an indulgent compromise, 
indigestion in terry cloth, dim-lit consequences. 

it’s the weather, stubborn. let me return, it says, 

but i am looking for some action, something to happen. 
there is gold in my abdomen, cinnamon sequins.

inflame me. i’m here for it. suffering for a small cup 

of pleasure, not a thing of beauty. & do not barter, bird, 
i tell myself. you cannot trade your filler words. 

your grand forevers, your molting wishes.
 
here is one: i would bring a best friend home. a best friend 
i would kiss on the mouth. i’m not trying 

to keep warm. i’m going for the quill, beak wide open.