This is how I think of you:
That you are made of wide-frame glasses,
vegetables and dismissals; that you watch
Dogma and you do not know why they
bothered making the movie and then ask me to
put in something depressing so you can cry again.
This is how I dream of you:
That you are standing outside of a residence hall
in the winter without any shoes; that you have no hair anymore
because your niece had leukemia and you cut it
all off to spite disease; that you flay your arms into
seventeen parts and I wake up screaming.
And most of all, this is how I feel you:
That you smell like the innards of a gull, all
lonely and grey; that even