sometimes kicked rocks don’t land where

in the mornings you sip from her coffee cup though you have your own to drink from. her lipstick sits there from lines from wrinkles where color is or is not.

you recall you are a whale half a brain awake so you can cut the surface for air. brain the size of what you hold in your hand. you suppose there is more to breathe with the other half awake. and her. you suppose there is not.

from the kitchen window where you wash the coffee cups when both are finished you see a squirrel climbing your fence. he peers over the edge. but the squirrel is black so the moment stands out. stands out in your mind but not enough for your mouth.

you’ve heard of birds who kill just for feathers. a mating ritual and this seems justified. remember rubbing color and paint over breasts and body. the tongues of your shoes keep slipping while you walk and only you notice.

because she lets it her forearm shines from the dog’s saliva. her skin is soft when you touch it if maybe loose from time and more. she likes the way you’ve always directed her face her mouth towards yours. this you know but not whether she thinks it.

but this is just the occasion you don’t want to explore. you know the heart is a hollow organ because of its cavity. you think of its vitality how viscera has meaning only inside of the body.